Searching For Sunny Skies
by TracyJean
Summary: In the sequel to Stormy Weather, Harm and Mac get away and try to deal with what has happened to them.
1. Default Chapter

**Title: Searching For Sunny Skies**

**Author: Tracy**

**Rating: R**

**Classification: Romance/Angst (Harm/Mac)**

**Summary: After the events of 'Stormy Weather', Harm and Mac search for ways to cope with what has happened, but they learn that trying to cope may prove to be more difficult than actually living through the original trauma.**

**Spoilers: General ones pre-'JAG TV'.  As far as this story is concerned, nothing that aired after JAG TV ever happened, so Mac didn't move the ring over, Sergei didn't become a POW, Kate didn't return and baby Sarah didn't die at birth (in fact, Harriet is still pregnant when this story begins)**

**Disclaimers: What, you thought that I owned them?  Yeah, right!  Do you think I would create characters like Mic and Renee if I owned them?  DPB, CBS and Paramount own them.  No infringement is intended – not that I have anything if anyone wanted to sue.**

**Notes:  This is a sequel to my story 'Stormy Weather' which can be found here at fanfiction.net or at my website Dress Whites And Roses**

~*~*~*~

MONDAY MORNING

HARM'S APARTMENT

It's nothing that she hasn't done hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times before, putting on her uniform in preparation for going to work.  I've never watched her do this before, but I know that this isn't just like all those other times.  For one thing, we're not going to work but to civilian court.  For another, I doubt that she has a ritual every morning where she unfastens and refastens all the insignia, ribbons and medals on her uniform.  They're all perfectly straight, but she fusses with them anyway.

"You know, we don't have to do this," I point out, fumbling with the buttons at the cuffs of my shirt.   Whoever designed these uniforms didn't have the temporarily infirm in mind.

Mac turns around and looks at me for a long moment, her fingers frozen on a marksman badge.  Finally, she takes pity on me and helps me fasten the tiny white button at my left wrist, then ponders my right cuff for a moment.  For obvious reasons, actually buttoning the cuff is out of the question.  "I don't know," she muses.  "Maybe we can roll up the sleeve a little bit so that the cuff isn't just flapping around your cast."

I sigh inwardly.  Is she even going to acknowledge what I just said?  Ever since I was allowed to leave the hospital early yesterday afternoon, she's done her best to avoid discussing what happened, even in the most general, non-specific terms.  Any time the subject has been brought up, she would look anywhere but directly at the person speaking, then change the subject to something inconsequential, like the rain and whether it will finally let up or how Harriet is doing in these final weeks of her pregnancy or whether the Admiral is ever going to get his vehicle back from police impound.

"Mac, I'm sure it will be fine," I reply, perhaps a bit impatiently.  "I'll have my jacket on over it to hold the cuff in place."  She nods shortly and goes back to fiddling with her uniform accoutrements.  I decide to try again, this time trying to moderate my tone.  "The Admiral said that it wasn't necessary for us to appear in court this morning.  Mic will be arraigned and the Admiral will present the petitions on our behalf for the TROs.  He has all the police and hospital reports to present to the judge and he can bring us our copies of the orders."

"Are you about ready?" she asks, going to the door and pulling her coat off the peg.  "The Admiral wasn't sure at what time this morning the case would be called, so I want to get there before the session starts.  But if you don't want to, that's fine.  I'll go by myself."

That stings.  I can't believe that Mac would even consider for a second that I wouldn't want to be there to support her, to support us.  "That wasn't my point," I say, grabbing my own coat and putting it on.  The right sleeve is a little tight and I have to struggle a bit to get it on.  "I don't really think either of us should go, but I'm not going to let you go without me.  We're in this together, remember?"

"You mean the way that we were in it together when you decided to go after Mic by yourself?" she asks, quietly enough that I'm not quite sure if I was supposed to hear that.  That stings even more than her first remark did, if only because it's all too true.   But I thought yesterday that she had understood why I did what I had done.  Either I misread her or it's been bothering her more than she's been letting on. 

We need to discuss this further, but now's not the time.  Getting through this morning is going to be tough enough without getting into an argument with Mac beforehand.  "Let's go then," I say, grabbing the umbrella and opening the door.  It's stopped raining for now, but the way the weather's been the past few days, you never know, especially since we have to walk to Union Station to catch the Metro.  As I recall, walking between Union Station and here without an umbrella in the rain is what started all of this.

~*~*~*~

ARCHIVES/NAVY MEMORIAL METRO STATION

GREEN AND YELLOW LINES

A walk from my apartment to Union Station.  A ride on the red line from Union to Gallery Place/Chinatown.  Another ride on the green line from Gallery Place/Chinatown to the next stop south at the Archives/Navy Memorial station.  And the entire way, I could swear that there were eyes on us everywhere.

It's odd.  It's not like we've never been watched before.  We're both attractive people and that draws attention by itself.  But I'm not used to this kind of attention, the questioning glances.  One or two women even give me hostile glares, as if I'm the one who put the bruise on Mac's face.  Yeah, and just what do they think happened to me, with my arm in a cast and my scraped and bruised forehead?  She hit me back?

Maybe we could say we were in a car accident.  I hit my head on the windshield or something and Mac hit the side of her face on the passenger window.  I can't believe that I just thought that.  As a lawyer, I've handled a few abuse cases in my day and I've heard the excuses, the evasive stories.  I just never thought that I'd ever be in a position where I'd be the one thinking of stories to explain away injuries.

Mac has been silent since we left my apartment.  Several times, I've started to say something, but something stops me.  I'm just not sure what exactly.  I think part of me is afraid of saying something, whether inadvertently or not, that might start an argument.  I didn't expect everything to be all sunshine and roses after Mic was arrested, but I didn't expect this tension between us either.  After an entire weekend of managing to communicate with each other pretty well, we seem to be back to square one, unable to express what we're really thinking and feeling.  Just what we need on top of everything else that we have to deal with right now.

Without warning, I walk around behind Mac and take up position on her other side so that my encased right arm isn't between us.  I know it isn't according to protocol, but I  take her hand in mine, walking close enough to her that our joined hands are not quite in plain view.  Even if I'm worried about talking to her right now, I want her to know that I am here, not just in a physical sense, but emotionally as well.  She looks between us at our joined hands, a startled expression on her face, and the thought crosses my mind that she's going to drop my hand, unwilling to breech protocol, but then she looks up at me for a brief second as she tightens her fingers around mine.

As we're about to step onto the escalator that will take us up to mezzanine level, I catch sight of the Admiral coming towards us from the yellow line's northbound platform.  He must have taken the orange line in from Falls Church to L'Enfant then come up on the yellow from there.  I tug on Mac's hand and step away from the escalator to wait for him, but I don't drop her hand, giving her fingers a brief squeeze.  I don't really care right now what the Admiral might say.

He reaches us, waving us off before we can snap to attention.  If he notices our clasped hands, which I'm sure he does, he doesn't say anything.  He nods and steps onto the escalator, the two of us just behind him.  "Harm, Mac," he says by way of greeting, mildly shocking me by the informal form of address.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Mac is surprised as well.  Then again, I guess he's seem us through some things this weekend that many commanding officers don't go through with their subordinates.  He turns and gives us both a concerned look and adds, "You didn't have to do this."

"We know that, Sir," I reply, not explaining further.  He doesn't need to know every tiny detail, how tense things are between Mac and myself over that very issue and over so many other things.  "Maybe this will help us start to find some closure."

He grunts noncommittally.  Yeah, I don't think I really believe that either, but Mac seems to think that this is something that she has to do, so here we are.  "I spoke to the US Attorney who will be handling the case last night," he says as we step off the escalator and follow him to another escalator from the mezzanine to 7th Avenue.  "There's a bit of a jurisdictional concern.  The DC Superior Court, as you are probably aware, has a separate unit for domestic violence cases, which is where your case falls, Mac."

"But the charges involving Harm don't," Mac points out.  They're the first words that Mac has spoken since the apartment and it bothers me that I can't quite read the tone behind them.  I can't figure out what she's thinking.

Actually, the Admiral's not telling us anything that we don't already know.  We also had a discussion with Mr. Bennett, the prosecuting attorney, yesterday afternoon when he stopped by my apartment to introduce himself and discuss the case.

"True," the Admiral admits, "which is what part of our conversation was about.  However, since the, ah, 'domestic' incident was the catalyst for everything else that happened, he's petitioning Judge Hedge to hear all the charges in this case rather than passing the whole thing off to the felony criminal division."

"Because this whole thing boils down to domestic violence," Mac says sadly, "and if it wasn't for me, this wouldn't have even happened to Harm. . . ."

A strangled "Mac!" is the only thing I can manage to utter, stunned by her pronouncement.  I'd thought, partly based on her comment back at the apartment, that she was mad at me for going after Mic by myself.  Now, it sounds like she's blaming herself for Mic's roughing me up.  The Admiral, he looks like he's not sure what to think or to say.  After a moment, he looks away uncomfortably.

As we step off the escalator, I tug Mac off to the side, out of the crush of people rushing off to work, motioning to the Admiral that we'll follow along in a moment.  Before I can say anything, Mac cuts me off with a shake of her head.  "Harm, don't start," she says quietly, conscious of the people milling around us.  "Please don't tell me about how this isn't my fault.  Mic would not have come after you if it weren't for my getting involved with you.  It's as simple as that."

It's not as simple as that, but she obviously doesn't want to hear that right now and I need to try and respect that.  Besides, this isn't really the time or the place for that discussion.  "Mac, I think there's probably more than enough blame to go around," I say carefully so that I don't upset her further, not that I really think she's going to cause a scene in the middle of a busy Metro station.  I just don't need anything that I say to come back to haunt me later.  "But can we just try to get through this morning and put everything else aside until later?  Let's just concentrate on presenting a united front in court today.  Mic's going to pay for what he's done and he can't hurt us anymore.  We just have to believe that."

Mac nods her agreement, for now anyway and we head back towards the Admiral, waiting patiently a few feet away, trying to look inconspicuous about watching us.  I think I hear Mac mutter under her breath, "I wish I could believe that," but when I look at her, she's staring straight ahead, her expression neutral.  Maybe I was just hearing things.  Or maybe it was that little voice inside my head talking, because I'm not sure that I can believe that either.

~*~*~*~

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA SUPERIOR COURT

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE UNIT

N CARL MOULTRIE I COURTHOUSE, RM 4242

Unfortunately, with this being a Monday morning and cases having piled up since Friday, it's a while before they call Mic's case, so we're left to sit and to wait and to think.  Too much damn time to think, if you ask me.  A couple of times, the Admiral tried to start a conversation, but after a few brief one- or two-word answers from either myself or Mac, he gave up trying and pretended to study the petitions for TRO, which he'd already filed yesterday morning with the court while I was still at Bethesda.

Finally, the bailiff calls Mic's case just before ten.  "District of Columbia versus Mic Brumby, case number 00-19465," the bailiff intones, handing the judge the case file while a police officer escorts Mic into the courtroom.  He looks around, smiling when he sees us.  It chills me to the bone, that smile, and I clutch Mac's hand just a little bit tighter.  If it weren't for the uniforms that we're wearing, I'd put my arm around her, both for comfort and as a not so subtle message to Mic.  I want him to know that I won't let him hurt her anymore.

"Defense waives reading of the charges," Mic's lawyer says, "and enters a plea of not guilty."  I don't recognize the guy, but I assume that he's one of the lawyers at that swanky law firm Mic works at.  I guess there's no accounting for taste.

"Plea of not guilty entered," Judge Hedge says.  "Mr. Bennett, the District's thoughts on bail?"

Ryan Bennett stands to address the court.  Detective Summers had brought him over to my apartment yesterday afternoon.  His quiet, gentle demeanor seemed a little odd for a seasoned US Attorney, especially one who's supposed to be a champion of battered victims, but Detective Summers swears by him.  She said he handles many of the District's domestic violence cases and has a near perfect conviction record and that he also volunteers time at many of the battered women shelters in the city.  After spending a few minutes in his company, listening to him discuss his strategy for the case, I'd felt marginally better.  This is definitely a man who cares about the victims and not just about winning another case.  We need that, especially since Mic apparently has the best attorneys money can by at his disposal.

"Your honor," Bennett says, his voice quiet and polite, "the District is concerned that Mr. Brumby presents a flight risk.  He holds dual US/Australian citizenship as well as a reserve commission in the Royal Australian Navy.  If he were to be recalled to active duty. . . ."

"This is preposterous," Mic's attorney objects.  He pauses while Mic whispers something in his ear, then adds, "Mr. Brumby is a member of the DC bar and a valued associate at one of the top law firms in DC.  His only interest is in vigorously defending himself against these ridiculous charges."  

I have to remind myself that I'm not here as an attorney because I want so much to object to that last statement.  Ridiculous charges?  Fortunately, Bennett is thinking along the same lines.  "Your honor, it is an insult to this court, to the police officers investigating this case and, most of all, to the victims, both of whom bear visible signs of what happened to them, to characterize this case as ridiculous," he says, his voice still quiet.  

"Mr. Dyson, try to watch what you say," the judge says.  "Now, getting back to the matter of bail.  Mr. Dyson, if I'm to even consider bail, one of the conditions will be that your client surrender to this court his passport and that the Australian Navy be informed of the charges pending so that Mr. Brumby will not be subject to recall."

"Your honor, that could cause irreparable damage to Mr. Brumby's military career," Dyson begins, but the judge cuts him off.

"Mr. Dyson, your client is charged with attempted murder, three counts of vandalism, unlawful detention and domestic assault and battery," the judge says sternly.  "If your client is convicted, damage to his military career will be the least of his worries.  I'm setting bail at $500,000 and making Mr. Brumby's release from custody contingent upon his passport being surrendered to this court.  Mr. Bennett, you'll prepare a letter to be passed on to the Australian Navy detailing the charges that Mr. Brumby is facing."

"Yes, your honor," Bennett replies.

"Now," the judge continues, pulling some papers out of the case file, "on a related matter, is Albert Chegwidden present?"

"Yes, your honor," the Admiral replies, stepping forward.  The judge looks at him over his glasses, surprised, probably by the uniform.

"First the Australian Navy and now our Navy," the judge muses.  "This case is starting to look like it should be a military matter."

"Your honor, the US Navy's only interest in this case is that both victims are military officers," the Admiral explains.  "I'm merely here as a friend and advocate for Commander Rabb and Colonel Mackenzie."

"Yesterday morning, you filed requests for TROs on behalf of, um, Commander Rabb and Colonel Mackenzie, requesting that Mr. Brumby be barred from coming within 1000 feet of them, their homes and their place of employment, correct?" the judge asks.

"Yes, your honor.  Based on the events of this weekend, we believe there is a legitimate concern that Mr. Brumby may come after them again," the Admiral points out.

"Your honor," Dyson objects again, "Mr. Rabb and Ms. Mackenzie are lawyers for the Navy's Judge Advocate General headquarters.  Our law firm often participates in cases against JAG.  You can't really expect one of our lawyers hands to be tied like this, prevented from doing his job."

"I wonder if he gets paid by the objection," I muse softly, trying to lighten the mood.  Mac lowers her eyes but doesn't reply.

"If Mr. Brumby's law firm has any business with JAG, I suggest they find another lawyer to handle it," the Admiral says in his firm, no-nonsense command voice.  "As the Navy's Judge Advocate General, I am exercising *my* command authority to bar Mr. Brumby from JAG headquarters.  With or without a restraining order, he gets past the guards at the gate, he will be thrown in the brig."

"That is an affront to this court, your honor," Dyson argues, his voice raised.  "To do anything without. . . ."

"*Mr. Dyson*," the judge says, his own voice raised, "I have no jurisdiction over the Navy.  If they wish to bar Mr. Brumby from their installations, that's their prerogative.  It doesn't matter, since I am granting the request for TROs.  Under the harassment restraining order, Mr. Brumby is barred from coming within 1000 feet of Commander Rabb, his residence and his place of employment.  Should Mr. Brumby inadvertently find himself in the same location as Commander Rabb, with the exception of court hearings relating to this case only, Mr. Brumby is required to leave the premises immediately.  Any violation of this order will result in bail being revoked and Mr. Brumby being remanded into custody to await trial.  The same conditions apply to the domestic violence restraining order being granted in Colonel Mackenzie's case.   Admiral, see the court clerk for copies of the restraining orders.  It is recommended that Commander Rabb and Colonel Mackenzie carry a copy with them at all times to show to the police should there be a problem."

"Thank you, your honor," the Admiral says before returning to his seat next to us.  I look over at him and nod gratefully.  After a moment, Mac does the same.

"If that's everything," the judge continues, speaking again to Dyson and Bennett, "then we'll hold a pre-trial hearing next Monday at one p.m.  I'll hear any motions that you may have and we'll set a trial date at that time.  Next case."

Our part finished, the three of us slip out of the courtroom, heading for the clerk's office.  "Harm, Mac, have you given any thought to what we discussed yesterday?" he asks.

"Actually, Sir," I say after a moment, when Mac doesn't respond, merely standing next to me, fiddling with the Marine globe on her cover, "we've decided to go up to my grandmother's farm in Pennsylvania for a few days.  We. . . .well, we need some time to unwind."

The Admiral nods, looking slightly relieved.  I have a feeling that he was really hoping that we would decide to take some time, not only as a friend, but as our CO.  If I were him, I don't think I'd want everything we're going through to interfere with work and it probably would, the way things are going right now.  "When do you leave?" he asks.

"This evening," I reply.  "We have to pick up both of our cars and Mac. . . .she has an appointment this afternoon."

I can tell he's curious, but he doesn't say anything.  Not that I really want to discuss it.  We haven't mentioned it since Saturday evening, but the idea of going to a counselor is still hanging over our heads, coming between us.  This morning, when she called to make the appointment, she did it when she thought I was still asleep.  Despite my hesitancy about the whole idea, it hurt that she felt she had to make the call when she thought that I wouldn't hear, as if I have a problem with her going.  I wish I could make her understand that my reluctance has nothing to do with her, but I don't know how.  I have to find out how, because that's the same thing that got us into trouble in Australia.

~*~*~*~


	2. Default Chapter

~*~*~*~

THAT AFTERNOON

OFFICE OF DR. MARGARET EMBRY

I flip through a magazine, not really reading it.  I don't even know what magazine I have in my hands.  I just need something to keep me busy while I'm waiting to be called into the doctor's office.  Eight minutes, thirty-four seconds late and counting right now.  Come on.  For not the first time, I glance sideways at the door and consider just walking out.  Do I really need to do this?  After all, haven't I managed to make it just fine before without professional help?

Maybe that's why my life is such a train wreck right now, because I haven't gotten professional help before.  When I needed to dry out, Uncle Matt was there to help me pick up the pieces.  When I fell off the wagon after ten years of sobriety, Harm was there to talk me into getting back on my feet.  But were the deeper issues really dealt with, the whys of the mess that has always been my life?  Maybe that's why I keep making the same mistakes, especially in my love life.

"Sarah Mackenzie?"  I turn to find an older woman standing over me, casually dressed in jeans and polo shirt, holding out her hand.  I take it, surprised.  This is the doctor?  I don't know.  I guess I'd expected someone in a suit.   Maybe it's an image she projects to make her patients feel more at ease.  "I'm Margaret Embry.  Would you like to come on back?"

"Thanks," I reply, taking a deep breath as I follow her back.  Suck it up, Marine.  This isn't some medieval torture session.  You're just here to talk.  Nobody ever died from talking.

As I take a seat in the office, I look around.  The office is casual without being messy, a reflection, I guess, of it's occupant.   Dr. Embry takes a seat opposite me and clicks on a tape recorder.   I start nervously at the sound.

"I record my sessions for transcription later," she explains, noticing my apprehension.  "The tapes are erased afterwards."

"It's not that," I reply.  "I just. . . .I guess it's hitting me that I'm really sitting in a psychiatrist's office ready to reveal all my secrets."

She smiles warmly at me and I try to relax.  Dr. Embry seems nice enough.  It's just the whole idea of seeing a shrink that I haven't quite got a handle on yet.  If I'm this apprehensive, I can just imagine what Harm's thinking.  No wonder he hasn't decided yet whether or not to seek help himself.  "You don't have to tell me anything you don't feel comfortable talking about," she tries to reassure me.  "Today will mostly be a 'getting to know you' session.  You'll give me an overview of what's brought you here today and we'll go back in future sessions and get more in depth about key issues.  Do you mind if I call you Sarah?"

"Actually, I'd prefer Mac," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.  "Mic. . . .well, he preferred to call me Sarah.  He didn't really care for calling me Mac after we got involved.  I guess it was too masculine for him."

I expect her to ask about Mic, so she surprises me with her next question.  "So because Mic called you Sarah and it ended badly with him, it bothers you to be called that?"

I consider the question for a moment.  After all, Harm has called me Sarah more than once this weekend – although he still used Mac most of the time – and it didn't bother me, not like it did just now.  "Well, I've gone by Mac since boot camp and, except for my uncle, that's usually what everyone calls me.  It feels comfortable.  I'm a Marine.  I like to rock climb and hunt dinosaur tracks.  I feel more like a Mac than a Sarah most of the time.  Mic not calling me Mac, it's like he was denying a lot of the characteristics that make me the person that I am," I explain.  

I smile slightly as I continue, "When someone calls me Sarah, it's usually something special.  My uncle is like a father to me, more of one than Joe Mackenzie ever was, so it just seemed natural that he would call me Sarah.  And Harm – well, when he calls me Sarah, there's so much behind it.  It's not just a name.  It's as if he's telling me how special I am to him, how much he loves me."

"Okay, Mac," she says.  She watches me for a moment, considering, as if deciding on her next question, then says, "Tell me about Harm.  Your eyes just lit up when you mentioned him."

"Harm?" I muse, sighing softly.  "I'm not sure if Harm can be condensed into a few short sentences.  Let's see.  My first impression of him was that he's arrogant, conceited, attractive and well aware of that fact, and a know-it-all."

Dr. Embry laughs a little.  "Interesting.  Okay, so what was your second impression of him?" she asks.

I laugh myself.  "Well, Harm is all of those things," I reply, "but he's also the most compassionate, caring, loyal person that I know.  He's passionate in his beliefs.   If he cares for you, he'll go to the ends of the earth to help you.  I guess the best way to explain that is by telling you about an incident that happened a few years ago.  I'm an alcoholic and after ten years sobriety, I briefly fell off the wagon after an ex-boyfriend was murdered.  I took it out on Harm and said some nasty things to him.  He responded that I was a mean drunk.  Even drunk out of my mind, that hurt because deep down I knew that it was true.  He called me a cab and I curled up at home, determined that I was going to hide until it all went away, as if it was just going to go away by itself.  There was a party at our boss' house that evening and when I didn't show up, Harm came looking for me.  I had gotten dressed for the party, but I couldn't face going.  Harm had been the only one from work who had seen me drunk, but I was scared of facing all my co-workers, afraid that they would find out how badly I'd screwed up.  I especially didn't want to face Harm because of what I'd said to him.  He encouraged me not to throw away ten years sobriety.  I was surprised at his attitude and he brushed it off, saying that he'd had worse things said to him.  I hurt him and he still came for me."

"So Harm's been there for you during some rough times," she concludes.  I nod.

"Even before I fell in love with him," I explain, "or before I would admit that I was in love with him, he was my best friend.  There's no one, except for my uncle, whom I'd trust more with my life.  I just. . . . sometimes, Harm and I have problems communicating and it has caused a lot of problems between us.  An abbreviated example of that would be a conversation that Harm and I had about nine months ago.  I kind of told him that I wanted a relationship with him.  He kind of said that he needed more time, but I wasn't listening and took his reluctance as a rejection and. . . .well, let's just say that started off the chain of events that led to this."  I indicate the bruise on my cheek.

"So where do things stand between you and Harm right now?" she asks.

"We're. . . .involved doesn't seem to be a strong enough word," I say.  "I love him and he loves me, but things are a little tense right now because of everything that's happened this weekend.  I'd even wanted him to come with me today, because he feels guilty about what happened and the part he thinks he played in causing it, but he's even more apprehensive than I am about the idea of therapy.  He's got some issues of his own aside from what's happened the last few days and that's holding him back.  He admitted that much to me."

"One little bit of advice," she says.  "Harm needs to make the decision for himself whether or not he wants to seek help.  He can't do it because you talk him into it or because he thinks that he has to do it because it's what you want.  He needs to want to do it for himself.  When you made the decision to come, did someone talk you into it or did you decide on your own?"

"Well, Detective Andrea Summers from the DCPD gave me your card when I was at the emergency room and suggested that I think about it," I reply, fiddling with the zipper on my jacket as I realize where she's going with this.  I know she's right, but it's not that easy.  "I decided on my own to make an appointment, although Harm was supportive of my desire for help.  He's just not sure when it comes to seeking help for himself.  But he let me make the decision on my own, so I should extend him the same courtesy."

"Very good," she praises me.  "It's a variation on the old saying 'you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink it.'  Different people have different methods of coping with life's tough times and what's right for you may not be right for Harm.  You have to respect that and concentrate on healing yourself.  For your relationship, you need to seek a compromise that works for both of you.  Maybe it will involve you continuing sessions with me and Harm talking less formally with someone that he trusts, rather than with a stranger."

"Well, we are leaving for his grandmother's tonight," I tell her.  "She lives just outside of Pittsburgh.  They're very close and she seems to be the person he usually turns to when he needs to deal with something."

"Then maybe this trip will be a good thing for him," she suggests.  "Maybe he'll talk to his grandmother about what he's thinking and feeling."

"That's what I'm hoping," I say, mentally crossing my fingers.  I don't know what to do for Harm, how to make it better for him and that scares me.  "That's one of the reasons why I agreed to the trip, aside from really needing to get away from Washington myself right now.  We have restraining orders against Mic, but it will be nice to go some place where I won't be looking around everywhere, wondering if I'm being followed or if Mic's going to jump out at me from the shadows."

"Going along with what I was just saying, it's good that a desire for Harm to talk to his grandmother isn't your only reason for getting away," she points out.  She leans back in her chair and studies me.  "Mind if we back track a little bit?  Earlier, you mentioned that your uncle was more like a father to you than your own father.  Would you like to tell me about that?"

"So, now we're getting into the tough stuff," I joke without much levity.  Good strategy, I guess.  Get me feeling relaxed by talking about Harm, then move onto the heavier issues.  I've used it in court myself.  Get the witness feeling relaxed on the stand by asking the easy questions first.  "My father was a Marine, so we moved around a bit when I was a kid.  He wasn't abusive to me, not physically anyway, but he did hit my mother.  He also drank a lot, which made him even meaner.  I guess that's where I get being a mean drunk from.  Anyway, my mother couldn't take it anymore and she fled on my fifteenth birthday.  She didn't think she could provide much of a life for me and was afraid that my father would probably come after her if she had taken me, so she left me with him.  I guess she thought that I would be safer with him since he didn't hit me.  Only I turned into a drunk like him.  I was fifteen years old and on my way to becoming an alcoholic."

"So what made you decide to quit drinking?"

"After I graduated high school, I went out and got wasted with someone," I respond.  "Eddie was the closest thing that I had to a friend, although our friendship was born of a shared desire for the bottle.  We were in a car accident and Eddie died.  I spent a week in the hospital, then Uncle Matt picked me up.  He took me out to Red Rock Mesa in Arizona to dry out.

"We spent a month up there.  The first week and a half, I alternated between cursing him, begging for a drink or demanding a drink, all while I was sick as a dog from withdrawal.  When I was feeling better, we left the caves and went hunting for dinosaur tracks.  At night, we would sit by the fire and talk about what I wanted to do with my life.  My uncle was a retired Marine Colonel and a Medal of Honor winner in Vietnam.  He was everything that I wanted to be in my life.  When the idea of my joining the Marines was first mentioned, I didn't know if I could do it, if I had the discipline to make it.  Uncle Matt suggested that if I could survive drying out, then I could handle anything the Marines could throw at me.  He put me through college – because I decided that I wanted to be an officer like him instead of enlist like my father – then I joined the Marines after graduation.  I started out in administration, then my CO in Okinawa recommended me for law school on the Marines' nickel.  Each year, the Navy selects thirty-five sailors and Marines to put through law school.  The competition is fierce and when I got one of the slots, it was one of the proudest days of my life, even more than the day when I had graduated from OCS and was commissioned as an officer.  After law school, I spent six months in Bosnia, then spent a few months at Quantico in the local JAG office.  Then I got what was supposed to be a temporary transfer to JAG HQ here in Washington for one case.  *That* was four years ago."

"Some temporary assignment," the doctor muses with a smile.  "So you dried out, went to college, joined the Marines, then went to law school.  Where in all this did you meet Harm?"

"Now there's a story," I laugh, feeling more relaxed.  This isn't so bad, but then again, we still haven't gotten to the incident – or maybe more accurately, the series of incidents - that has brought me here today.   "Harm was an F-14 pilot, but he was in a crash and ended up grounded.  Remember when I mentioned that he often turns to his grandmother?  That was one of those times.  He spent a lot of time at the farm after his crash and seriously considered leaving the Navy.  He finally decided to apply for the Navy's Law School Program, the same program I went through.  After graduation, he was assigned to JAG headquarters and had been there a little over a year when I transferred in.  Except for six months when his flight status was restored and he returned to being a pilot, we've been there together ever since."  I lower my eyes, remembering that time was when I'd started getting closer to Mic.  I'd felt bereft without my best friend and I see now that Mic was just a poor man's substitute for what I couldn't have.  I know that really wasn't fair to Mic, but after everything that's happened, I can't find it in myself to feel any sympathy towards him.

"Mac?" Dr. Embry asks and I look back up, shaking my head.  

"Sorry, I just got lost in thought," I say, not quite convincingly.

"It bothered you when Harm left JAG," she states.

"Not exactly," I say without thinking.  "I mean, yes it did bother me, but that's not really what I was just thinking about.  It's just that's the time when I'd started getting closer to Mic and when Harm returned, he assumed that Mic and I had become involved.  We hadn't yet at the time, but I didn't exactly fall all over myself denying it.  I don't know why I did that, or maybe I do.  It sounds petty, doesn't it, trying to make Harm jealous?"

"Had you and Harm been involved before he left?" she asks, seemingly ignoring my question.  Or maybe she just thinks that I need to answer that one for myself.   Or maybe she realizes that I already know the answer.

"No," I reply sadly.  "Although I think that we were close to taking that step when he decided to leave.  Or I was close to admitting how I felt.  I've never really discussed it with Harm, so I don't know what he would say to that.  In the months before he left, we had been the closest that we'd ever been, but everything was so tense when he'd returned.  There was a part of me that felt betrayed when he'd left, that felt if he'd really cared about me, he would have stayed.  But I know intellectually why he felt he had to find closure as a pilot.  It just wasn't so easy convincing my heart."

"So you and Mic did eventually become involved for real?"

"Through a series of misunderstands," I tell her, "Harm was convinced that I was involved with Mic and I thought that Harm was getting serious with this woman that I couldn't stand.  She was so different from the other women I'd seen Harm date over the years, but I have to admit, after this weekend, that she's a lot better person than I gave her credit for being.  They weren't really involved yet, but I didn't know that at the time.  Anyway, Mic really had been chasing after me, but I kept resisting him, mostly because of Harm, partly because Mic could be kind of annoying with his attentions.  Even after Mic went back to Australia, he sent me e-mails daily trying to convince me to go there to visit him, even offering to pay my way.  He'd also send me postcards of the beaches there.  It was driving me crazy.  This guy just didn't know how to take 'no' for an answer.  That probably should have been my first clue to stay as far away as possible."

I stop as I remember the debacle that was Australia, rubbing my temples against an imaginary headache, and Dr. Embry has to gently prod me to continue.  "And then what happened?"

"Harm and Bud, another co-worker, were sent to Australia on a case," I reply after another moment.  "I later followed to take care of something related to the case.  Harm and Bud weren't at the airport to meet me.   I suspect now that Mic had subtly manipulated things so that they wouldn't be available.  At least he wasn't exactly happy when I'd mentioned Harm's name and he seemed to think that it was some kind of joke that Harm was stuck with his client.  He took the day off and convinced me to go to the beach with him.  I didn't see the harm in that – that pun is intentional – so I agreed.  Then he tried to talk me into going topless, like many of the other women on the beach.  I wasn't comfortable with that, so I had him tie the strings of the bikini behind my back.  Then who should come by but Harm and Bud.  I had been reading a magazine, kind of holding it in front of me, so from where they were standing, it looked like I was topless.  Then I really screwed everything up."  

I can tell by the look in her eyes that she's taken note of the bitterness in my voice at that last bit, but she doesn't comment, merely asking, "How?"

"Instead of dropping the magazine so they could see that I wasn't topless," I explain, my voice still with a hint of bitterness at myself, "it was almost like I was playing a game with Harm, goading him.  Mic didn't help matters any by antagonizing Harm over the fact that I was at the beach with him and apparently topless.  Then I really compounded things by choosing the next night to try to kind of tell Harm how I felt about him.  Needless to say, he didn't react the way I had wanted and I saw it as a rejection, even though I know now that wasn't what he meant.  Then came the whopper.  Although we'd never really dated, Mic asked me to marry him a few nights later.  I'd tried to tell him that I couldn't, but he suggested that I wear the ring on my right hand until I decided.  He had the ring on my hand before I could protest and. . . .I guess I felt trapped.  Another example of his not being able to take 'no' for an answer.  He kind of steamrollered me before I could think to protest.  Then, when I showed up at the airport and Harm saw the ring, he barely said anything, but looking back, I could see it in his eyes.  I couldn't have hurt him more if I'd stuck a knife in his back.  In a way, I guess you could say that I did.  And the rather passionate goodbye kiss that I exchanged with Mic didn't help.  I guess I'd wanted Harm to wake up and sweep me off my feet, begging me not to marry Mic.  But as long as I've known Harm and as well as I know him, I should have known better.  If he thought Mic was what I'd wanted, he wasn't about to ruin my happiness.  He cared too much about me to do that."

Without a word, Dr. Embry hands me a box of tissues and I pull several out, wiping away the tears that have started falling.  "I'm sorry," I say.  "I know that I've done some stupid things.  But even I'm surprised at my reaction.  I'm not usually like this.  Friday night and Saturday morning, Harm and I finally cleared the air about what we'd said and what we'd meant in Australia and it didn't hit my like it is now.  For several months, I was here and Mic was still in Australia, so I could avoid making a decision.  This is when Harm got seriously involved with Renee, because he thought that I was lost to him.  Then Mic shocked the hell out of me by going into Australia's Navy Reserves and moving to Washington 'to be near the woman he loves'.  And still I didn't do anything.  Without going in depth into everything – that would take more time than we have here today – Mic was subtly pressuring me to move the ring to my left hand.  He could seem so sweet and charming so that it was easy to miss the emotional blackmail, like the subtle remarks about what he'd given up for me, even though I hadn't asked him to.  And we fought – a lot.  And I was always the one apologizing, even if he was just as much, if not more, at fault.  He kept surprising me, like being involved with a JAG case that I was prosecuting.  He never told me he was representing a military contractor involved in the case until he showed up at JAG for a meeting about the case.  I felt so humiliated in front of my co-workers.  He even gave an interview with a national magazine when a case I was prosecuting was televised.  First, it was without my permission even if he didn't say much.  Second, he told them that I was his fiancée when I hadn't agreed to marry him.  He was out of town, so I couldn't have it out with him.  I left an angry message on his answering machine.  But through all this, I still didn't tell him 'no, I can't marry you'.  There was even this picture of me from Australia circulated at that time that could only have come from him.  I never even called him on that one."  Maybe I hadn't seen the point.  After all, he hadn't cared about the other times that I'd been mad at him.

"That was just two weeks ago," she says, while I shake my head.  I guess everyone really did get caught up in all the publicity surrounding the trial.  She notices my expression and adds, "I have a subscription to _People and remember seeing the article.  So did you have it out with Mic in person?"_

"We did have another argument," I reply with a heavy sigh.  "It was Election Day, in fact.  I went to vote when I got off work and ended up getting home late and he was there waiting for me.  He kept going on about how we were practically living together, even though he has his own apartment, and how I'd been wearing his ring for nine months.  He didn't care that I hadn't actually said yes.  But still, I did the stupid thing and didn't return the ring.  I just let things go.  I guess it was easy to do that since he went on another trip the next day.  And then came Friday night."

"What happened Friday night?"

"Harm and I were working together on a case," I explain, studying the zipper of my jacket again.  "We got together at his apartment to work on the case, because we'd been having trouble coming up with a defense angle.  We got tired and decided to take a break and go get something to eat.  When we returned. . . .I can't explain it.  There wasn't really a catalyst, one thing that opened our eyes, but suddenly. . . .we just looked at each other and everything fell away.  We just couldn't pretend or hide anymore.  I finally took off Mic's ring and Harm and I made love.  It was like a dream, finally being with him, telling him that I loved him, hearing him tell me the same thing.  And we finally opened up to each other and cleared up so many of the misunderstandings that had torn us apart.  It was a dream come true that quickly turned into a nightmare."

I look up, but Dr. Embry's just watching me, letting me continue at my own pace.  I take a deep breath and add, "I knew Mic was returning on Saturday, so I'd planned to stop at home to change then go over to his place and return the ring.  Only, when I got to my apartment, he was waiting for me, having decided to surprise' me again.  First, he tried to get me into bed, but I insisted that we needed to talk.  He was a little mad because he didn't think it was too much to expect his *fiancée* to spend time with him when he had just returned from a trip.  I pushed him away and insisted that we talk, but I could tell he wasn't really interested in what I had to say.  He was just humoring me until he could convince me to go to bed with him.  When he wouldn't listen, I blurted out that I didn't love him and couldn't marry him.  Then he tried to beg me to give him a chance.  Then he said that after all he had given up and all the months that had passed, I couldn't just declare our relationship over.  It was all about him.  He didn't even care about what I wanted.  Then he noticed that I was wearing a Naval Academy sweatshirt, which he'd assumed – accurately in this case – belonged to Harm and he assumed that Harm was the reason behind my decision.  Eventually, I managed to calm him down, but then the phone rang.  He ordered me to let the machine get it, but I let that slide, just wanting to deal with Mic and get it over with so that I could get back to Harm."

I dab at my eyes again with the balled-up tissues still clutched in my hand and take a few more deep breaths before continuing, "It was Harm on the phone, asking if I had a file pertaining to our case at my place, reminding me that we'd never gotten back to the case the night before.  Then he said 'I love you' and Mic lost it.  He'd already grabbed my arms before, but when he heard that message, he hit me before I could say anything, knocking me against the door.  He accused me of cheating on him with Harm the entire time, grabbing me and shaking me.  I kneed him and tried to get out the door, but he pulled me down to the floor. . . .I think he would have tried to, um, but I managed to get away again and grab my gun from my desk.  After he left, I called Harm.  They finally arrested him yesterday morning, after he slashed the tires on both our cars, vandalized my apartment and lured Harm into meeting him with the intention of killing him."

She waits patiently again while I succumb to tears for a brief moment.  My voice is shaky as I say, "I'm sorry.  I've been dealing with everything pretty well. . . ."  I trail off, not sure what to say.

"Mac, before we call it a session, I have a couple of observations to make," she says.  "First, you have nothing to apologize for.  You are entitled to your feelings and you don't have to justify them or apologize for them to anyone.  Second, I've heard you use the word 'stupid' several times.  Personally, I hate that word and think it should be banned from the dictionary.  It's an abusive term."

"My father used to use it a lot," I say in a faraway voice, remembering the sound of his drunken voice raised in anger.  "It was actually one of the nicer things that he would say about me."

"People make bad decisions," she continues.  "Even the smartest, most well-adjusted person on this planet can make bad choices.  Those decisions aren't stupid, no matter how ill-advised they may be.  When you made them, did you think that you had valid reasons for making them?"

"Most people wouldn't think so," I reply, shrugging.

"We don't care about what most people think," she counters firmly.  "Did you, Sarah Mackenzie, think that you were making a valid decision at the time?"

"I guess."

"Then they're not stupid," she tells me.   "There are a lot of factors that can go into making decisions.  Sometimes you don't have all the information necessary to make the best decision.  Sometimes outside factors are affecting your ability to make a decision.  None of this makes you a bad person or a stupid person.  It just makes you human."

"Intellectually, I know that," I say.  "But my heart and my head don't communicate very well at times."  I laugh a little.  "Kind of like Harm and me."

"Well, we can get into more detail about some of these things the next time I see you," she says.  "How long will you be in Pennsylvania?"

"We're coming back Sunday morning," I reply.  "We have to get back to work next Monday."

"Do you think you can come in next Monday after work?" she asks.  I nod, starting to feel better about the idea of therapy.  Then again, we've just scratched the surface.  It's probably going to get harder from here.  "In the meantime, I have an assignment for you.  You said that Mic seemed to have no regard for your feelings and it seems that you have had a tendency to bury them, knowing that they wouldn't be validated by him.  I want you to look back at those times when he felt that he wasn't considering your feelings and write down what you were feeling deep down.  You can pick one incident or you can pick more than one.  It's up to you.  I want you to focus on yourself.  Try to block out how Mic was acting or how you think he wanted you to feel.  I want to know what was going on in Sarah Mackenzie's mind absent all the outside influences."

"Okay," I say, maybe a bit reluctant.  She might have a point there.  Mic's just the latest in a long line of men going back to my father who has had little, if any, regard for my feelings.  Maybe I have gotten used to burying my true feelings, used to them being disregarded.  I've done well throughout my life building walls around myself.  My uncle and Harm are probably the only two people who've really gotten a good look at what's hidden behind the walls.

She smiles as we stand and I try to force a smile myself, but it doesn't quite come off.  "Enjoy your time in Pennsylvania," she says as we walk back out to the waiting room.  "And I'll see you next week."  We reach the reception desk and she turns to the woman behind the desk.  "Sandy, would you make Ms. Mackenzie an appointment for late next Monday."

"Yes, Doctor," she replies.

"Goodbye, Mac," Dr. Embry says, holding out her hand.  I shake it, feeling less apprehensive than I did an hour ago.  "You have one of my cards?"

"Yes, Detective Summers had given me one," I reply as the receptionist hands me a card with the information for my next appointment.

"Good," she says.  "My office and answering service numbers are both on there.  Feel free to call me if you need anything or just need someone to talk to, no matter what the time."

"Thank you, Dr. Embry," I say.  "I wasn't sure about this, but I'm feeling better."

"It won't be easy," she reminds me.  As if I had any illusions that one session would make anything okay. "But eventually everything will be okay.  You will have good days and you will have bad days, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  Just try to keep it in sight."

~*~*~*~

HARM'S APARTMENT

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER

When I enter the apartment, Harm's in the kitchen, struggling with a jar of salsa, holding it against his body with his right arm while fighting with the lid with his left hand.  I drop my jacket and purse on the counter and walk around, holding out my hand.  "Need some help?" I ask.

He struggles for another moment before handing me the jar with a frustrated sigh.  "I couldn't get a good grip on it with my right hand," he says.  I look at his hand and notice his fingers are still a little stiff and swollen, purple and blue with bruises.   The doctor said the stiffness would probably go away in a day or two.   I open the jar with a snap and hand it back to him.  He pours some salsa in a bowl and replaces the lid.  He then opens a bag of tortilla chips and pours them in a larger bowl.   "You want to take one of these?"

I grab the bowl of chips and we carry everything into the living room, setting the bowls on the coffee table and sitting on the couch.  "So how was it?" he asks as I dip a chip in the salsa.

I shrug.  I'm touched that he asked, but it's exhausting telling your life story to a stranger.  I don't really want to talk about it right now.  "It was okay," I reply, "but a little tiring.  Do you mind if we talk about it later?"

"Sure, if that's what you want," he replies.  We're both silent for a moment, munching on chips, then he says, "I talked to the tire place.  Both cars should be ready in about two hours."

"Hmmm," I murmur, not really paying attention to the last part.  He said he was fine with not discussing my appointment now, but I couldn't read the tone behind the words.  Is he really fine with not talking about it or is he just saying that because it's what I want?  He's so good at doing things because it's what he thinks I want.  

I shake my head when I become aware of him calling my name.  "Sorry," I say, smiling weakly as I rub the back of my neck, "my mind was wandering a bit.  I'm a little worn out."

He gives me a grin, but it's not one of those ones that always makes me weak in the knees.  It's a sad grin, weighed down by everything that's happened.  "I'd give you a shoulder rub," he says, holding up his cast, "but I'm kind of handicapped."

"Poor baby," I tease, trying to lighten the mood.  We need to do something before we get bogged down by everything.  "Too bad I can't kiss it and make it better."

I laugh at the mock crestfallen look on Harm's face and brush my lips against the bruise on his forehead.  "Feel better?" I tease.

He grins at me, less sorrow in his expression.  "I could use some more of that," he replies.

"So could I," I agree as I lightly press my lips to his.  I need this right now.  I'd needed this last night, but with everything that happened, Harm had spent most of the day dozing on and off and I'd felt the exhaustion that comes when the adrenaline wears off.  We'd been too tired to do little more than crawl into bed and curl up together.

I keep the kiss soft, barely brushing my lips over his before pulling away slightly.  I want to keep this gentle and loving, not like. . . .

"Hey, what is it?" Harm asks, concerned.  I wasn't aware that it was so obvious on my face.  I pull back further and look down at my lap.

"It's. . . .I'm just thinking too much," I say quietly.  I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him everything, how I keep coming back to the early hours of Sunday morning and my fears of the possible consequences of our impulsive actions.  How do I explain when I haven't sorted out for myself everything that I'm feeling about those moments.  "So much has happened and talking to the doctor. . . .we didn't even really get into what happened this weekend aside from a general overview, but. . . .I don't know.  There's just so much that I need to sort through and acknowledge, and not just about the last few days.  I think she's right.  I do have a tendency to bury my feelings and I need to learn to express them more, or maybe to express them better."

"Come here," he says, patting one of his legs.  I climb into his lap, resting my head against his shoulder while he wraps his arms around me.  I close my eyes and relax into his embrace.  Too bad I can't stay in his arms like this and just forget the rest of the world forever.  "I want you to know that you can always tell me what you're feeling.  You don't ever have to hold back with me."

"I wish that it could be that easy," I murmur, burying my face against his shirt, willing the tears not to fall.

"Sarah?"

See, it doesn't bother me when he says it.  In that single word, I can hear all his concern and love for me.  I shake my head, trying to clear the other, more negative thoughts that I can't banish.  "There's just some things that I have to sort out in my own head before I will feel comfortable discussing them, even with you.  How can I explain to you what I'm feeling if I don't completely understand myself?"  My voice rises at the end and I'm instantly contrite for my tone.  No matter how easy it might be to say that Harm drove me to it, I can't blame my lousy decision-making skills on him.  His actions were just the excuse that I used to justify running away from myself.  Ultimately, I am the one who kept making stupid decisions.  "I'm sorry. . . ."

Harm tilts my chin up, forcing me to look him in the eye.  "Please don't apologize for being confused or. . . . for anything else you're feeling," he says sincerely.  "I don't want you to be afraid to tell me what you are feeling, even when you disagree with me about something."

I nod slowly, cursing myself again for nearly throwing away my relationship with Harm for a man who didn't deserve the time of day from me, much less my love.  "Sarah, please tell me what you're feeling," he says, noticing the clouds passing over my expression.

As I look into his eyes and see all the love there, I make a decision.  I've had a rough day and I want to concentrate, even if only for a few all-too-brief moments, on all the wonderful things that I feel every time Harm takes me into his arms.  I want to forget, for just a bit, all the dark clouds that don't seem to want to go away.  I climb off his lap and stand in front of him, holding out my hand to him.  "Come to bed with me," I request softly.  "Right now, I need you so much."

He hesitates for just a moment and I wonder if this is wrong, if all I'm doing is trying to hide from my life again, even if I find a few moments of bliss doing it.  But then the hesitation is gone and he stands, taking my hand in his, his fingers gently massaging mine.  I shiver involuntarily at his gentle touch and find all the bad memories beginning to recede.

~*~*~*~

LATE THAT EVENING

SARAH RABB'S FARM

BEALLSVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA

"Turn right here," Harm instructs me.  "It's about a quarter-mile up to the house."  The SUV is jolted when it hits a particularly rough spot on the gravel road.  Harm groans in pain and I turn my head, concerned.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he replies, grimacing as he lays his arm across his lap.  "I know how rough the driveway is and should have known better than to rest my cast against the door.  It bumped the door when we hit that pothole just now."

"You're sure you're okay?" I ask again as I slow down just a little.  His arm is no longer against the door, but I don't want to take any chances.  He's in enough pain already because of me.

"I'm fine," he replies.  "Just keep your eyes on the road.  It's rough and it's dark outside."

I turn back to the road, watching him out of the corner of my eye.  I can tell from the way his mouth is tightening that he's in more pain than he's letting on.  He must have it the door pretty hard.  There are two kinds of men – those who stub a toe and act like they're dying and those who could be bleeding to death in front of you while insisting that they're fine.  Harm definitely falls into the later category.  I learned that early in our relationship, after he almost single-handedly brought down a terrorist group while in the hospital after being hit by a car.

I smile at the memory.  "What are you smiling at?" Harm asks.

"Just remembering the good times," I reply sadly.  He covers my hand resting on the gear shift.

"We'll have good times again," he vows and I laugh lightly at the declaration.

"When did you become such an optimist?" I tease.  When Harm doesn't answer, I look over at him.  "You don't have to answer just to make me feel better," I tell him, my tone sadder.

Harm turns away and looks out the window, murmuring, "Maybe I'm trying to convince myself."

I don't know what to say.  Today, with my appointment with Dr. Embry, I've been so wrapped up in what I'm going through that I nearly lost sight of everything that Harm's going through because of this.  But I am saved from coming up with some lame reply by our arrival at the house.  In the dark, I can just barely make out a figure standing on the porch.  "It looks like your grandmother's on the porch waiting for us," I say.

"She usually is when I come up here," he replies, still staring out the window.  "I asked her about it once and she said that it was because she is always anxious to see me because I don't come up here that often.  I wish I could get up here more, but. . . .well, you know how busy everything is at JAG."

I smile sadly, wishing that my family could be like that.  But my grandparents are all long dead and Uncle Matt is still in Leavenworth.  My mother – I haven't been in contact with her since my father's funeral and I honestly don't know what I'd do if I were to ever see her again.  "Mac?" Harm asks and I look over at him, realizing that I had spaced out, my hands on the keys in the ignition, the car still running.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, turning the key and pulling it out, handing the ring of keys to Harm.  "I'm just tired, I guess.  Now, didn't you say that your grandmother was going to have dinner waiting for us?"  Aside from a quick snack just before we left, we haven't really eaten since lunch, since Harm said that his grandmother always has a meal waiting for him when he arrives, no matter how late.

Harm studies me for a moment, looking like he's about to say something, but he shakes his head, apparently changing his mind.  "Come on, Marine," he says.  His words are teasing but his tone isn't and that saddens me.  "Let's take care of your stomach."

We both get out of the car, Harm waiting for me as I walk around.  I smile, leaning against him as he puts his arm around my shoulder.   As we walk up to the porch, I study the woman waiting for us.  She's a small woman, at least compared to her six foot, four inch tall grandson.  She smiling warmly at us as she waits, her arms holding her sweater tight around her in an attempt to ward off the cool November air.  "Harm," she says in greeting, holding her arms out to him as we step onto the porch.  He releases me and steps into his grandmother's arms as I hold back, allowing them a private moment together.  I watch Harm's expression as they embrace and it makes me happy and sad at the same time, for reasons that I can't really explain.

"It's good to see you, Gram," Harm says as he steps back, motioning to me to come forward.  As I step forward, the next words out of his grandmother's mouth startle me.

"Harmon Rabb, what happened to your arm?" she asks, concerned as she stares at his right arm.  "Why are you wearing a cast?"

I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as he replies, "I broke my wrist, Gram.  It's kind of a long story and we can discuss it later."  Why is his grandmother surprised at Harm's injury?  Didn't he explain to her exactly why we were coming up here?

I hesitate and Harm puts his arm around me again, pulling me to him.  "Gram, this is Sarah Mackenzie," he introduces us.  I should smile, but I can't force myself to.  I'm still reeling from what I just heard.  If she didn't know about his broken wrist, then. . . . "Mac, this is my grandmother, Sarah Rabb."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Rabb," I say, trying to brush aside those thoughts, holding out my hand.  But she will have none of that and pulls me into her arms for a hug, tears springing to my eyes at the warm greeting.  "Harm's told me a lot about you."

"It's about time we got to meet," she says firmly as we step back.  "And it's Gram around here, not Mrs. Rabb."  She gives Harm a stern look, almost as if she's taking him to task for not bringing me up here sooner.  "You're just about all my grandson talks about."

Normally, such a statement would bring some good natured ribbing from me about why he talked so much about a woman who was supposedly 'just a friend', but I can't bring myself to find the humor in the situation.  Gram studies me for a moment, then suggests, "Why don't we head inside and get some dinner?  I'm sure you're both hungry, as late as it is.  We can worry about your luggage later."

Harm puts his arm around me again, but this time I don't relax against him.  It's dark on the porch, so although she's noticed the cast – kind of hard to miss it – she hasn't seen the bruises yet.  I suddenly feel dizzy and pull away.  I can feel their eyes on me, questioning me.  "Um, do you mind if I stay out here for a minute?" I ask nervously.  "After being cooped up in the car for over three hours, I need a little air."

"Just come in when you're ready, dear," she says patiently, patting my arm.  "Dinner will be waiting for you when you're ready to come in."  She heads into the house, leaving Harm and I alone on the porch.  I ignore him, sitting down on the front step and leaning forward, resting my head on my knees, breathing deeply as I try to will the nausea away.

I hear the creak of wood planks as Harm sits down beside me, rubbing my back gently.  "Mac?  Sarah?" he asks, his voice heavy with worry.  "What is it?  Please tell me what's wrong?"

I lift my head, blinking back tears as I wrap my arms around myself, holding my stomach.  Taking a deep breath, I ask in a shaky voice, "Why didn't you tell your grandmother what happened?"

~*~*~*~


	3. Default Chapter

~*~*~*~

I stare at her, incredulous, not quite sure what that has to do with anything.  If it's about the questions that Gram might ask, would the questions really have changed whether I'd told her over the phone yesterday when telling her that we were coming or I tell her here in person?  It doesn't make any sense to me, but I can hardly say that to Mac.  "Well," I begin, trying to chose my words carefully, "I didn't want to tell her over the phone.  Then she probably would have worried until she could see for herself that I – that we're – fine."  That's a simplified explanation, but I hope it will do.  I sense that I'm walking into a minefield here, but I don't know how to really explain it in a way that Mac will accept.  She turns her head, unwilling to meet my gaze, her silence telling me nothing and everything.

I still don't know what I'm going to tell Gram.  I imagine the conversation would start off rather nonchalantly. . . .

Well, Gram, there was this guy.  I never liked him from the beginning, but I stood by and did nothing while he chased after Mac.  Then I screwed things up by leaving Mac to chase after a dream that should have been dead and buried, which allowed BugMe to worm his way into her life even more.  When I returned and thought they were involved, I didn't say anything aside from a few snide comments about their relationship.  Maybe I thought that Mac would wake up just because I was acting like a jealous schoolboy and drop his sorry ass.  Sorry about the language, Gram, but this guy just bugged the hell out of me.  Then I really screwed things up when Mac pressed me about the possibility of a relationship between us.  Instead of telling her how I really felt about her, I mumbled something so idiotic and vague that even I can't figure out what it was supposed to mean.  I can wow judges and juries with my brilliant prose, Gram, but I choked on one of the most important conversations in my life.

That's probably about the point when my voice would start getting very harsh and bitter as my imaginary conversation with Gram continues. . . .

Then she showed up at the airport wearing his ring, and your grandson the idiot just watched like a dumbass while she practically makes out with the guy in the middle of the airport.  Then there were more snide comments while I went home at night and let another woman warm my bed just so I could escape my feelings.  Then I got really good at ignoring the whole situation, except for a few times when I nearly slipped with more snide comments.  Then the guy returned from Australia to claim Mac like she was some sort of prize or possession and you know what I did?  Absolutely nothing!  I should have challenged him to pistols at ten paces or something like that.  My favorite idea involves taking him up in the Stearman and kicking his ass out somewhere over the Shenandoah Mountains – except that I wouldn't want to sully my beloved plane by letting him anywhere near it.  No fist fight, however.  I didn't come out too well the last time we came to blows.  Or this time, obviously.  Yeah, Gram, another long story, that first time we fought.

Anyway, months went by and I had just about perfected my public persona of the stoic who was determined that he would be happy for the woman he loves even if she was thinking about marrying a man who doesn't deserve to live on the same planet with her, let alone inhabit her life.  I didn't recognize myself anymore and I sure as hell didn't recognize that shell that was now my friendship with Mac.  Some best friend I was.  I was about to fall on my sword and let her make one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

The voice inside my head laughs bitterly, mocking me as I continue. . . .

Then, Gram, something really amazing happened!  Your grandson finally woke up and smelled the coffee.  Damned if I know how or why, though.  It felt so wonderful, finally opening up to Mac.  Only thing is, she was still with Mic and I was still with Renee, so. . . .I'm sure you can figure it out.  Yeah, I know, real brilliant.  Renee took the news of what happened pretty well, probably better than I had any right to expect, especially considering that she found out from Mic.  I suspect that she might have been letting me off easy because of what happened to Mac. . . . Which leads us to Mic's reaction to all this.  To say that he reacted badly would be an understatement of immense proportions.  I've rarely been so scared in my life – except maybe when Mac and I got shot down in Russia or when I thought she was dead on the Watertown – when she called me to come over to her place and asked me to carry a weapon.  Then she opened the door and my heart broke when I saw how fragile she looked, when I felt how she trembled in my arms.  Honestly, Gram, I'd never wanted to kill anyone more than I wanted to kill Mic Brumby at that moment.  As for myself, I couldn't even begin to think of ways to punish myself enough for my part in what had happened.  I don't know if I can get past the guilt that I feel for what I did to Mac.  If I hadn't been such an idiot and pushed her away, none of this would have ever happened.

When he called me wanting a meeting, I agreed.  He and I were going to have it out and he was going to pay for what he'd done to Mac.  No one hurts Mac like that and lives to tell about it.  I sound like some cheap novel there, but honestly, the thought did cross my mind.  This wasn't about doing my duty, shooting down the bad guys in the name of God, country and the United States Navy.  This was about revenge.  I wanted to kill him.  But something – self-preservation, a brief moment of sanity? – led me to call the Admiral and tell him about the meeting.  Would I have killed him if given the chance?  As I had told Mac when she asked me the same question when I found Diane's killer, 'I guess we'll never know.'  He did manage to knock the gun from my hand and had gotten in some pretty good blows – obvious from the bruises and the cast on my wrist – and he even pulled a knife on me.  That's when the Admiral showed up and saved my sorry six.  So that's it, Gram.  That's how all this happened and I managed to completely fuck up three people's lives.  It would be four, but I'm not charitable enough to include Mic in that equation.  He was fucked the moment he decided to use Mac as a punching bag.

I imagine there's several reactions that Gram might have to all this.  There's the loving, smothering response, where Gram could hover over us, doing everything for us.  Nah, that's not her.  If she didn't act like that after my crash, why would she behave like that now?  Then there's Gram with the friendly ear, ready to listen to either of us if we feel like talking.  That's her most likely response, but I'm not sure how much good that will do with two people who can barely talk about their feelings as it is.  She could be judgmental, but that's not her either, although I'm not entirely sure that she won't want to kick my six around the farm for being such an idiot.

I think the worst reaction would the 'I'm disappointed in you, Harmon' coupled with that look, you know the one that makes you feel like you are about two inches tall, lower than the lowest pond scum.  She doesn't use that one very often – I think the last time was when I was considering leaving the Navy after my crash.  The only reason she used it then, I'm sure, was as a subtle way of guilting me so that I wouldn't make what would probably be the biggest mistake of my life.

I shake myself from my morose revere and look at the woman sitting beside me.  She's still not looking at me.  She just there, her elbows resting on her knees, running a hand restlessly through her hair.  I think that hurts even more, the idea that I'm disappointing her.  Unfortunately, it's not the first time and I fear that it won't be the last.  God help me, I wish I could promise that it would be, but I can't.  I can't seem to help myself sometimes.   That's what started this whole mess to begin with, isn't it?  I reach out hesitantly and put my hand on her shoulder, but she still doesn't look at me.  "Sarah?"

She shrugs off my hand and stands, her fingers turning white as she grips her upper arms.  She takes a few steps forward and stares out over the yard, her back to me.  Her posture seems so rigid, so controlled.  When she begins to speak, her voice is so soft that I have to strain to hear her.

"Can you imagine what it's like?" she muses.  I get up and walk up behind her, wanting to reach out and take her in my arms, assuring her that it will be alright.  But she's already shaken me off once and. . . .I don't know if I can take the rejection when all I want to do is make everything better.  The problem is, I'm not sure how to do that.  "All my life, I keep screwing up, making the same bad choices that lead to. . . ."

"Sarah," I plead, getting up and walking around so that I'm standing in front of her, but it's like she's looking right through me, her gaze distant.  "It's not just your fault. . . . "

"Don't start that!" she shouts, startling me with her ferocity.  "You didn't force me to take a ring from a man that I didn't love.   You didn't force me to go groveling to him, apologizing, every time we had an argument because I was scared that I was going to lose what I thought was my only chance to have the family I've always wanted.  You didn't force me to live a lie with Mic while I tried to deny that I was in love with you.  I felt guilty because I couldn't make myself love Mic and I've let that guilt keep me in a relationship that at best was emotionally abusive even before it turned physical."

I reach out, intending to grab her and pull her into my arms.  At the last second, I realize how she might react to that and drop my hands, but not soon enough.  She flinches as she realizes what I was about to do.  I instantly back pedal, trying to apologize.  "God, Mac," I say, full of contrition, "I wasn't thinking.  I shouldn't have done that.  I'm sorry."

She turns from me again and the expression on her face breaks my heart.  I want to protest that she has to know that I would never hurt her, but I know it's a lie.  I may never hurt her physically, the way that Brumby has, but I've hurt her emotionally, perhaps more than he ever could.  That bitter truth hits me hard, chilling me to the bone.  I turn suddenly, needing to take off somewhere, anywhere.  I just need to get away from here and the harsh reality that I can't hide from any more than I could hide forever from my feelings for Mac.

"Is that your solution?" she demands.  I can't answer her, so I keep walking, needing to find refuge from the suffocating cold invading my heart.  But I can't get away fast enough to avoid from the truth.   "There goes Harmon Rabb, running away again.  Let's see, you've run away from home, from flying after your crash, emotionally from every woman who's ever tried to have a relationship with you, from JAG to pursue a dead-end dream, from me in Australia, from your own feelings for NINE months, and now you're running away from dealing with this!"

I pause for a moment, unable to deny the truth of everything she's saying.  When I do find it, my voice is deadly calm.  "Well, you'd know all about running away, wouldn't you?" I retort, my voice quiet, but just loud enough, every word meant to hurt her just as much as her words hurt me.  "Isn't that what you did when you gave up on us and ran right into Mic's arms?"

I don't even wait to hear her reply before storming off, not stopping until I reach the barn that was my refuge during the dark days after my crash.  I would come out here to think, trying to make sense out of the senselessness of life, taking solace in things that have stood the test of time for generations.  The door is open, not having been secured for the night yet.  I turn after entering the barn, attempting to slam the door shut, but it's too big and heavy and I'm too infirm to make the kind of loud bang that I'm looking for.

"Damn you to hell, Mic Brumby," I whisper, slumping against the door, fighting against the urge to break down or to throw something.  Neither would accomplish anything, nor would they be as satisfying as getting my hands around Brumby's neck and squeezing the life out of him.  "I hope you burn in hell for everything you've done."

~*~*~*~

The next thing I realize, I hear a distant voice calling my name.  Harmon?  Who would be calling me Harmon?  Then I remember.  Mac and I came up to Gram's to get away from everything.  Only everything followed us up here.  I guess we've both been running and not really getting anywhere.

Mac.  I wouldn't be surprised if she found a way to get out of here and is already halfway back to Washington.  How did we get so screwed up and not just this?  We've been on a downward spiral ever since that day I walked out of my office, leaving her in tears, not saying everything that was on my mind and in my heart and nothing we do seems to put the brakes on the out of control ride that has been our relationship for a year and a half.

"Harmon?" the voice says again and I open my eyes, finding myself looking into the concerned eyes of Gram.  She's sitting next to me, a hand on my shoulder, her expression completely free of judgment.

"How long have I been out here?" I ask, my voice sounding fuzzy to my ears.  I must have fallen asleep, because everything's a blur.  I can't remember anything after I stormed into the barn.  Drunken amnesia without the alcohol.  But it won't last long.  It never does.

"About two hours," she replies.  "I thought both you and Mac needed some space to cool off, so I convinced her to take a long bath and let you alone for a bit."

"You heard?"  Great.  My grandmother heard us screaming like unruly children in the yard.

"You two weren't trying to be quiet," she replies with a sad smile.  "But that's not important.  It's a good thing that you came up here.  I think you both need me right now."

"I don't know, Gram," I say with a heavy sigh.  "I don't know what we need.  Nothing seems to help.  It will seem like it's getting better, but then we take about five steps backwards."

"You love her and she loves you," she points out.  "You'll find a way to work through this and you'll be the stronger for it."

If only it were that simple.  I lean against Gram's shoulder, closing my eyes as I try to relax in the strongest arms I know.  But it's a losing proposition.  "Gram, I'm scared," I admit in a rare moment of candor.  Gram can get me to open up like no one else can.  "We've barely started and I….I'm already losing her and I don't know what to do."

~*~*~*~


	4. Default Chapter

~*~*~*~

TWO HOURS EARLIER

My heart breaks for both of them – for my grandson and for the woman he loves – as I listen to the loud voices drifting into the house.  I don't want to hear this.  I'm not a busybody.  I trust Harm to come to me when he's ready and to let me know what's weighing so heavily on both of their minds, to tell me what sent both of them running from DC to the serenity of the old family farm.

And that's precisely what they're doing, I realize as I move to close the door, hoping to block out the sounds of the argument taking place outside.  The last time Harm ran like that, he thought his career was in shambles after his crash.  Now, it appears as if it's his life in shambles and he's come to the one place he's always known he can find the peace that has so often been lacking in his life.

I reach the door in time to see Harm storm off as Mac shouts after him, every harsh word giving me a glimpse into the private hell they're both struggling through right now.  Harm freezes and says something to her – his voice just loud enough so that only she can hear – before taking off again.  He's probably headed for the barn.  He used to spend hours upon hours out there after his crash.  It's always been his private place, his refuge.  I'll give him a little bit, then go after him if he doesn't return.

Right now, Mac needs me, maybe even more than Harm does.  From what he's told me, it's been rare in her life that she's had people around her whom she could count on unconditionally.  Harm knows that I'm here for him when he's ready.  Mac doesn't have the luxury of that knowledge.  Harm's probably the only person that she's sure she can count on and they aren't exactly speaking to each other right at this moment.

"Mac, honey," I call out, opening the screen door a crack, "you want to come on in?  I've got some stew on the stove if you're hungry and you're probably tired after the long drive."

She turns and looks at me, her expression confused for a moment, as if she'd forgotten that I was here.  Then she shakes her head as if to clear it as she wraps her arms around herself, more to ward off the chill she'd feeling inside than that in the air, I suspect.   Her cheeks are dry, but I can see from here the tears glistening in her eyes.   "Um, Mrs. Rabb…." she begins, her voice uncertain.

Giving her a comforting smile, I step outside and walk over to her, draping an arm over her slumped shoulders.  "Now, it's Gram around here, remember?" I tell her.  "Come inside and warm up."  She turns her head and I follow her gaze in the direction in which Harm stalked off.   I try my best to assure her that it will be okay.   "He's probably just gone out to the barn.  He likes to go out there to think when things are getting him down.  If he doesn't come along in a bit, I'll go out after him."

After a moment, she nods, accompanying me with obvious reluctance as I direct her towards the house.  As we step into the house and the bright glare of the indoor lighting, I get my first look at the bruise darkening her face just under her left eye.  I bite back my initial gasp of surprise, knowing that this is somehow related to Harm's broken wrist.  Bits of overheard conversation replay in my mind and I wonder if this has something to do with the lie Mac said that she's been living with another man.  But I keep my questions to myself.  I don't know Mac well enough yet to feel comfortable delving into something that personal.  I'm not even sure I'd feel comfortable asking those questions of Harm.  I tighten my fingers on her shoulder for a brief moment, hoping she understands the unspoken message that I'm willing to be here for her.

"Why don't you take a seat at the table and I'll fix you up a bowl of my stew?" I suggest, releasing her and busying myself getting dishes from the cabinet.  "It'll warm you right up."

"I don't know if that's possible," she whispers as she sinks into a chair at the table.  I glance at the coffee pot, then shake my head.  This calls for something a little more comforting and I grab a couple of mugs from another cabinet and fill them with water, sticking them in the microwave to heat while I retrieve the cocoa from the pantry.  After I finish preparing our drinks, I set one of the steaming mugs in front of her, which she barely acknowledges.

"Harm loves my hot cocoa," I tell her as I ladle some stew into a bowl, also setting that in front of her, again without acknowledgement.  "Every time he comes to visit, I usually give him a mug right off."

When Mac finish does speak, her words surprise me for some reason I can't quite pinpoint.  I guess I wasn't expecting her to jump into this so quickly, especially with someone who's practically a stranger, even if I am the grandmother of the man she loves.  "Aren't you going to ask what happened?" she asks, her voice surprisingly firm.  Or maybe not so surprising.  I can see in her the strength that Harm so admires.  But even the strongest person needs to lean on someone else every once in a while.

"No," I reply, setting my own place at the table and sitting down across from her.  She glances up at me, surprised.  I shrug.  "I figured that you would say something if you wanted to talk about it.  Or Harm will later.  He usually tells me what's wrong sooner or later, although sometimes it's definitely later."

"Harm thinks a lot of you," she says as she finally picks up her spoon and dips it into her bowl.  But she stirs the thick broth, poking at bits of vegetables and meat with the edge of the spoon.  "He….I don't know.   He has indicated that you're a person that one can talk to."

"I try to be," I reply.  "Harm loves his mother dearly, but they could be at odds sometimes, especially after she married Frank.   And even before my son disappeared, he was often away.  I guess I always tried to make sure Harm knew that there was someone he could turn to whenever he felt the need."

"My Uncle Matt is like that," she confides softly.  "My parents – well, I don't know how much Harm has told you – but they were far from the greatest and sometimes it scares me to think about what my life might be like if Uncle Matt hadn't picked me up from the hospital after my accident and forced me to straighten out my life."

"Something tells me that he didn't force you to do anything you didn't already want to do deep down," I tell her.   The hint about her parents isn't anything I didn't already know.  The fact that she's managed to overcome so many problems in her youth is one of the reasons why Harm says he admires her so much.   "Harm tells me you're one of the strongest people he's ever met and he's hardly one to hand out compliments lightly."

"I don't feel very strong right now," she counters, staring down at her food.  Glancing up at me, she actually lifts a spoonful of stew to her mouth, probably more out of a desire to show me kindness for preparing the food, rather than any real desire that she has to eat.  "This is good.  I'm surprised there's meat in it, with Harm coming."

I accept the change of topic gracefully.  It's probably temporary anyway.  I consider myself a very good judge of character and this is a woman who really wants, deep down, to talk to someone.  If I wait long enough, I think she'll talk to me.  I hope she will.  She means a lot to Harm, so by extension she means a lot to me.  "Harm tells me that you have a healthy appetite," I reply.  "He'll just eat around the meat and the two of us can tease him about what he's missing."

A ghost of a smile appears on her face, but just as quickly, it's gone.  I don't want to push, so silence reigns for a few minutes as we both eat, Mac with a bit more gusto now that she's actually tasted the food.  As she finishes off her bowl, the atmosphere is almost comfortable and she is more relaxed than she's been since they arrived.   When Mac finally breaks the silence, she brings up the topic of the events which brought the two of them here.

"It bothered me," she begins, "or I guess it still does, that Harm didn't tell you beforehand what happened or why we decided to come up here."

"He probably didn't want me to worry about the two of you," I explain.   I'm not really surprised by his behavior.   I think there's very little about Harm which could surprise me after all these years.  "Harm is very passionate about protecting the people he really cares about."

"I know," she replies dully.  "That would be how he broke his wrist."

"You mean, by going after the man who did that to you," I conclude, nodding towards her bruise.  Again, it's not really a surprise when she answers in the affirmative by nodding.

"I suppose I should be thankful it wasn't worse," she adds.  "If he hadn't called the Admiral…."  She trails off, perhaps concerned that she's revealing too much, but I know my grandson well enough to have a pretty good idea what happened.  

"Let me see," I say, standing and gathering our dishes.  Mac makes a move to help me, but I wave her off and she settles back into her chair with her drink.  "My grandson decided to go off on his own after this man, probably without telling you, but fortunately, he called the Admiral, probably because he realized that he was on the verge of doing something foolish."

"Mic used to be a boxer," she reveals, sipping her cocoa.  "And they've fought before.  Harm held his own that time, but then again, Mic wasn't….angry, betrayed.  He didn't blame Harm for….for my leaving him."

Her voice is so quiet at the end that I have to strain to hear her.  Tears are forming in her eyes again and I reach across the table, covering her free hand with one of mine.  "I didn't realize that you were his property," I say firmly.  "If you decided to leave him, whether or not it had anything to do with my grandson, it seems to me that he should have acted like a man and accepted your decision."

When she looks up at me, I see a hint of admiration in her eyes.  "I think I see where Harm gets spirit and his determination," she says.  I begin to feel just a little flicker of hope that maybe I'm doing some good for her.

"Well, unfortunately, I got mine the hard way," I explain, "by becoming a widow with a young son when I was barely out of girlhood.  If I managed to pass some of that on to my grandson by example….then it was the least I could do as a grandmother."

"Did Harm ever tell you how we met?" she asks, managing a small, genuine smile at the memories she's obviously reliving.  I do know this story, but I motion for her to continue.

"He was uncomfortable with me at first," she tells me, a far away look on her face.  "You know, because of Diane.  But he managed to look past that pretty quickly, at least most of the time."  I nod.  I'd met Diane a few times, during visits while they were at the Academy, a couple of times after graduation.  One of the first things that Harm had told me about Mac was how much her appearance had spooked him, especially coming just months after Diane's death.  But he never mentioned it again after that first time.  Mac's correct that he did manage to look past the physical resemblance pretty quickly.  Even I can tell, from my limited experience with both women, that the appearance is physical only.  Personality-wise, they are nothing alike and I'm sure Harm latched onto that fact pretty quickly.

"Anyway, I didn't help things by holding a gun on him," she continues after a moment and her expression softens just a little.  I don't know if it was love at first sight, but it seems she's had very strong feelings for Harm since the beginning.  I hope that hanging on to those wonderful memories will ultimately help them through whatever else has happened to them.  "But he looked past that, too, and later he was telling Uncle Matt exactly how he was going to defend him and how he could spin things so that I didn't get into trouble for my actions."

"Well, Harm is usually very good at reading people," I point out.  "He obviously saw something in you and your uncle that made you worth defending in his eyes."

"And when Harm decides that he's found something or someone worth defending," she agrees, slowly shaking her head, "God help the person who stands in his way."

"Sounds like the voice of experience talking," I say with a smile, motioning to her to follow me out into the living room.  The kitchen table hardly seems to be the place for a heart to heart with the woman Harm loves.  She follows and we settle onto the couch.  Mac's eyes immediately go to the pictures of Harm decorating the coffee table and she picks one up, running a finger over the glass, tracing his features.  That particular photo was taken when Harm was restoring 'Sarah'.  He's painting the check board pattern on the tail, a look of intense concentration on his face.  He hadn't even realized I'd taken the picture until he noticed it sitting on the table in its frame.

"We've butted heads because of that more times than I can probably remember anymore," she explains.  "But it's one of the things that  makes him such a good lawyer and it's one of the things that made me fall in love with him."

"It's one of the things I love most about my grandson, as well," I concur, "even if that determination can sometimes border on pigheadedness."  Mac and I share a laugh 

"Oh, I've definitely seen that side of him," Mac says.

"Well, I do have to say that the pigheadedness is an inherited trait," I joke.  "Both my grandsons seem to have picked it up from their father."  Mac gives me a look of surprise and I shrug.  "Isn't that why my younger grandson is in the middle of a war rather than here in the States getting to know his family?  Harm told me.  I also know that he hasn't told his mother yet."

"He's afraid to be the one to hurt her with the truth," she explains.  "He told me a few days ago that his mother stopped in Washington for a visit and he was going to tell her, but couldn't."

"It would go against Harm's personal code of honor," I reply, "to intentionally do anything to hurt someone he cares for.  Unfortunately, as a result, it means that he feels it very deeply when he believes that he's hurt someone unintentionally."  I pause for a moment while my words sink in, Mac finally giving me a slow nod of acknowledgement.

"Intellectually," she says sadly, fighting the trembling threatening to overcome her voice, "I know that it was ultimately Mic's fault.  He was the one who beat me.  He was the one who lured Harm into meeting him yesterday morning.  I know that and Harm knows that.  But there are so other things…."

"If only you'd hadn't done this, if only you'd done that differently, right?" I ask firmly.  "That's what this all comes down to.  You and Harm are both blaming yourselves, in varying degrees, for provoking this Mic person and you're both so wrapped up in blaming yourselves that you're having trouble connecting so that you can help each other through this."

"That would be it in a nutshell," Mac confirms.  "So what pearls of wisdom do you have to impart?"

"None," I replay, earning a shocked look – mixed in with a bit of disappointment - from Mac.  "Mac, I'm only human and, although I've been through my share of heartache and tragedy, I can't even begin to imagine what you two are going through.   I may have been on this earth for a long time, but that doesn't mean I have all the answers.  The only thing that I can do is be here for both of you, lending a friendly ear if either of you want to talk and praying that you'll both find your way."

Mac is silent as she absorbs this and I pick up our mugs.  "Now, I am going to insist on something," I state, my tone making clear that I'm not going to accept any arguments.  "You are dead on your feet.  I'm going to make you another mug of cocoa and then I'm going to take you upstairs.  You're going to talk a long, hot bath and try to relax while I go check on Harm out in the barn.  Then I'll get him to come inside and eat dinner.  Then I want both of you to go to bed and to try to get a good night's sleep.  Hold each other and try to forget for a few hours everything except how much you love each other."

She nods, saying softly, "I think we can try that."  I pat her on the shoulder and turn to head into the kitchen, but before I take two steps, she stands and gives me a tight hug.  "Thank you, Mrs….Gram.  I think that was pretty wise."

I don't know about wise.  There are a few things that I have learned in over eighty years.  One is that things will get better eventually.  Another is that no matter how much I'd want to, I can't do a thing to take away the pain of those I love.  That's probably the hardest lesson of all for anyone to learn and one that I imagine Harm and Mac are discovering for themselves right now.  Just as much as each of them blames themselves for what happened, they also are frustrated because they can't make it easier for the other.  In its own way, that probably hurts them more than their physical injuries ever could.

~*~*~*~

I enter the barn to find Harm just inside the door, slumped against the wall, asleep.  Usually, he looks so peaceful in sleep, but not this time.  He looks so troubled and tormented, worry lines creasing his forehead.  Carefully, I lower myself to the ground next to him, a hand on his shoulder.  "Harmon?" I say.  He stirs, but doesn't awaken until I call his name again.  When he does finally open his eyes, it breaks my heart to see how lost he looks.  I haven't seen that look in a long time….not since the last time Harm came running to the farm, after his crash.

"How long have I been out here?" he asks sleepily, his voice slightly slurred.

"About two hours," I reply.  "I thought both you and Mac needed some space to cool off, so I convinced her to take a long bath and let you alone for a bit."

"You heard?" he asks, avoiding my gaze.  I imagine he thinks that I'm disappointed, having heard them arguing like a couple of children.  But I'm not disappointed, not in them.  I'm hurt because the person I care for most in the world – and the woman he loves – are hurting.

"You two weren't trying to be quiet," I reply with a sad smile.  "But that's not important.  It's a good thing that you came up here.  I think you both need me right now."  I mentally cross my fingers that I'll make some kind of impact with him, just as I did with Mac earlier.

"I don't know, Gram," he says, sighing heavily.  "I don't know what we need.  Nothing seems to help.  It will seem like it's getting better, but then we take about five steps backwards."

"You love her and she loves you," I say, making the same point I've already made with Mac.  "You'll find a way to work through this and you'll be the stronger for it."

I'm not quite sure he believes me.  He leans against my shoulder, closing his eyes.  I sense that he's trying to relax, but not very successfully.  My heart breaks even more at his next words.  "Gram, I'm scared," he admits softly.  It's a rare admission from Harm and a sign of just how desperate and out-of-control he feels right now.  "We've barely started and I….I'm already losing her and I don't know what to do."

I don't say anything for a long moment and just hold my grandson, conveying silently the message that I'm here for him.  Finally, I tell him softly, but firmly, "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Mac.  You're going to come inside and eat dinner.  Now, don't give me that look, Harmon.  I'm not about to take 'no' for an answer.  You are going to eat dinner.  By the time you're finished, Mac should be finished with her bath.  Then I want both of you to go to bed, hold each other and try to get a good night's sleep."

Harm lifts his head from my shoulder and asks tentatively, the concern obvious in his voice, "How is she, Gram?"

"She's hurting right now, same as you," I reply.  "But it will get better eventually.  The best advice I can give both of you right now is to be patient and to be there for each other and to trust that your love for each other will get you through this."

He gives me an uncertain look, as if he's not quite sure of the truth of my words.  "I know things seem pretty bleak right now," I add, managing through years of practice to sound reassuring, "and I know that I don't know the whole story yet, but I think I do know enough to be able to say that you will get through this.  I won't sit here and pretend that it will be easy, but you will get through this."

"How much did Mac tell you?" he asks.

"Just generalities," I reply.  "She confirmed for me that she was involved with this Mic guy and broke it off with him.  He didn't take it very well, hit her, then came after you because he blamed you for her leaving."

"We slept together," he blurts out.  I look at him, confused.  Does he honestly think that because I'm old, I don't know how relationships work these days?  But understanding dawns with his next words.  "Before she officially broke it off with him, I mean."

"So?" I demand, getting a look of surprise from him.  If he's expecting disappointment or censure from me, he's going to have a long wait.  "Tell me something.  If you two had not 'slept together', would she still be with this Mic person right now?"

"I don't know…." he says hesitantly.  He picks up a piece of straw from the floor and rolls it between his fingers, staring at the golden stalk.  "I mean, we talked about it and she said there were problems in the relationship even before we….but I don't know.  If there were problems, I would have thought she would have broken it off with him before…."

"So you're blaming yourself for everything because what happened between you and Mac was the catalyst, in your mind, that cause this Mic person to strike out, right?" I ask.  "Well, that's absolute rubbish, Harmon, and you should know better than that.  Nobody is responsible for Mic's actions but Mic himself.  If you were in a court of law, you'd be laughed right out of court with an argument like that."

"Gram, it's not that simple," he begins, but I cut him off.

"Actually, in a way, it is.  I'm not claiming what you two did was right," I interrupt firmly, "but I'm not going to condemn you for it either.  No matter what you did, nothing could possibly excuse what Mic did.  I assume he has been arrested?"

Harm nods.  "He was arraigned this morning," he replies.  "That's part of the reason why we got here so late.  He's facing domestic assault, vandalism and….attempted murder."  My eyes widen in shock at that and he quickly tries to reassure me.  "Because he had a knife when we had our….confrontation, the prosecuting attorney decided to go with attempted murder rather than simple assault, especially since it was premeditated and he had lured me into meeting him."

"So what happens next?" I ask.  "With the court case, I mean?"

"He has been released on bail," he replies, staring off across the barn.  "The Admiral did get temporary restraining orders on our behalf, barring Mic from coming anywhere near us.  There's another hearing next Monday afternoon and, aside from hearing any motions, a trial date will be set at that time."

"Good," I say.  "Then while you're up here, I want you to try and put the case out of your mind.  I seriously doubt anything's going to come up on that score in the next seven days.  You and Mac are under orders to try to relax and to talk to each other.  Things are going to be rough when you go back to Washington and have to face all of this again, but it will go easier if you two are there for each other."

"Gram…." Harm begins hesitantly, finally looking at me.  He takes a deep breath before he continues.  "Do you think we can….get past this and go on, I mean?"

I close my eyes, wishing that I could lie and give him the answer that he wants to hear.  But I've never lied to him before and I'm not about to start now.  "You know I can't answer that," I reply honestly, holding his gaze.  "I'm not a prophet.  But I can tell you this.  Neither of you will get past this alone.  You need each other, perhaps more than you ever have in the four years you've known each other.  I can't make you find your way, but I am here for you, for both of you.  If either of you wants to talk or you just want a hug, I'm here.  And I'm praying."

"I think we could use all the prayers we can get right now," he says softly, pulling me into a hug.  "Thank you, Gram.  I love you."

"I love you, too," I reply, then pull away and stand.  When I speak again, my tone leaves no room for argument.  "Now, it's time to go inside.  You need to eat then it's off to bed."

A ghost of a smile flits across his face at my no nonsense tone, but just as quickly, it is gone.  "Okay," he agrees softly.  "I….need to see Mac anyway, to apologize.  And I….just need to hold her in my arms.  When I can hold her, somehow everything feels just a little bit better."

"Because you love each other," I point out.  "And that's what you have to hold onto.  If you hold onto your love – although I can not promise it will be easy, because it definitely won't be – then you have the most important tool you'll ever need to get through this."

~*~*~*~

It's another sign of how badly Harm is hurting that he eats the entire bowl of stew that I set in front of him, not even noticing that there's meat in it.  His movements are automatic, without feeling.  I have a feeling that I could have put a thick, juicy steak in front of him and he would have eaten it without even noticing what it was.  But I don't say a word, just let him eat his food – thankful that he is at least eating and isn't claiming that he's not hungry – and let him know by my mere presence that I'm here for him.  When he's finished, he insists on going out to the SUV to retrieve their luggage, only to find that Mac brought it in already while we were out in the barn.

"Well, I guess it's time to head off to bed," I say, starting upstairs.  Harm hesitates a moment, then slowly follows me.  "It's getting late.  I'm not a young woman anymore, you know."

My tone is teasing as I say that last bit and Harm tries to respond in kind.  "I don't think you'll ever be old, Gram," he says, but his voice mostly sounds flat.  I turn my gaze Heavenward and silently ask God to look out for them.

"Believe me, I have days when I feel every one of my eighty plus years," I reply, nearly running into Mac at the top of the stairs as she comes out of the bathroom, dressed in a terry robe, her hair wet from her bath.  She manages a weak smile, until she sees Harm coming up the stairs behind me.  They both hesitate a moment, both of them obviously remembering their earlier argument.  Then before I can blink, they're in each other's arms, clinging desperately to each other.

"I'm sorry," they both whisper at the same time and I breathe a little sigh of relief.  I know those words don't come easily to Harm and I suspect they are just as difficult for Mac to speak.  It's a small step, but at least it's a step in the right direction.  They both seem to have forgotten my presence, so I slip away to my own room without saying a word.

As I get ready for bed myself, my eyes fall on a picture prominently displayed on my dresser – the last picture I have of my husband and son together, taken the day David left for war in December 1941, never to return.  David's in his dress uniform, Harmon in his arms, playing with the shiny gold wings on his father's chest.  I pick up the picture and study it, softly repeating my own private prayer that I've uttered so many times before.  "David, Harmon," I whisper, "I hope you both are up there, watching over Harm.  Right now, he needs all the love and support he can get.  Mac, too.  They love each other so much, but they're afraid that it isn't enough and, God help me, so am I."

~*~*~*~


	5. Default Chapter

~*~*~*~

It feels so good, being in his arms, holding him like I'm never going to let him go.  Like this, our arms around each other, my head buried against his shoulder, his scent enveloping me, I can almost forget that we were ever arguing, let alone what about.  Almost.  But I want to forget about that right now and concentrate on making things better with Harm. 

He pulls back and looks at me with such love that I manage to offer a smile in response as I blink back the tears threatening to fall.  "It's going to be okay," he tries to assure me, but I know him so well.  I catch the slight hesitation behind his words, the uncertainty in his eyes.  But I love that he's trying.

"I want it to be," I reply, just as hesitantly.  "But …."

He sighs heavily as he leads me towards the bedroom his grandmother had shown me to earlier.  Suddenly, I realize that she's no longer with us and I shoot him a questioning glance.  "Where's your …. um, Gram?" I ask.

He manages to smile a little himself as he glances around the hallway.  I guess he hadn't noticed that she was gone either.  He shrugs as he turns back to me.  "I guess she figured that we wanted to be alone now," he suggests.  He stares at me for a moment, then adds quietly, "Do you want to be alone with me?"

I nod mutely.  I understand why he feels the need to ask that question, but it still stings.  "I just …. I don't know what I want or what to think right now," I say, trying to put into words all these thoughts and fears running around in my head.  "I guess it scared me a little – having to face a stranger and to explain all this."  I motion towards my face.  "Did you notice the people staring at us on the subway this morning?"

Harm nods slowly as he pulls back the covers on the bed.  I pull off my robe and crawl between the sheets dressed in a t-shirt and boxers I'd grabbed from his suitcase.  The corners of his mouth turn upward as he takes note of my attire.  "Those look familiar," he comments without humor.

"Probably because they're yours," I answer, sliding over to make room for him as he strips off his clothes.  "I needed to be close to you and you weren't here."  That's my fault to an extent.  I was the one who reacted so badly.  I drove him away and I'm not sure how to bring him back.

"I'm sorry," he says sadly, climbing into bed next to me, lying on his side facing me.  We're not quite touching and it almost feels like the Grand Canyon between us, even though barely a few inches separate us.  I know that it's the emotional distance I'm feeling.  I don't like that feeling – I've felt it far too many times since Harm returned from the Patrick Henry.  God, only one day with the shrink and I'm already psychoanalyzing myself and my relationship with Harm.  

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I tell him, tentatively reaching out and taking his hand in mine.  It's hard to hold hands with his in a cast, so I settle for clasping his fingers.  "I don't know why I said the things I did …. I'm the one who should be sorry."

"Even if they were true?" he asks.  I can hear the heartache in his voice and I tighten my grip on his fingers as I slide a little closer to him.  He slips his other arm under my neck and pulls me closer to him.  I roll onto my side so that I'm facing him, one hand pressed against his chest.

"But that's not why I said them," I say quietly, lowering my eyes.  I'm ashamed of what I was thinking when I said all those things.  I don't even recognize the person who was screaming such hateful things.  Until that moment out in the yard, I would have sworn on the Bible that I'd never do anything to intentionally hurt Harm.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  I think that's what my entire relationship with Mic was about – hurting Harm as much as I'd believed that he'd hurt me on the ferry.

Stunned by the realization, I pull away from him and slip from the bed, going to stand by the window.  It's dark out there, the moon hidden behind the clouds.  It's almost like I'm looking through a window into my own soul.  What happened to Sarah Mackenzie, the 'gung ho, Semper Fi, kick ass jarhead', as Harm once called me?  When did she disappear and how do I get her back?  Can I buy back the soul I sold to the devil?

"Sarah?" he asks quietly.  From the sound of his voice, he's still in bed, probably not sure whether he should back off or come and take me in his arms.  After earlier, I guess if I were him, I'd be hesitant about coming anywhere near me.  Slowly, I turn around and the look on his face breaks my heart.  He wants to come to me, but is afraid of being rebuffed.  God, when is this all going to end?  When will we stop feeling like we're walking on egg shells around each other?  When will we be able to concentrate on us without worrying about everything conspiring to tear us apart?

"Harm…." I begin, trailing off when I can't think of what to say, how to explain everything going through my head so that it makes sense?  Maybe that's something to ask Dr. Embry at my next appointment – how do I talk to Harm?  Communication, at least when it comes to the deep, personal stuff, has never been our strong suit, but if we can't find a way to reach out to each other, I'm scared that we can't make it last.  And I want this to last more than I've wanted anything else in my life.

"Sarah, please," he says, sitting up on the edge of the bed.  He leaves room for me to sit next to him, but doesn't motion me over, leaving it up to me to decide if I need the space or not.  "Tell me what you want."

"That's the problem," I reply, my voice ragged.  "I don't know.  There's a part of me that wants to hide, closing myself off from the rest of the world.  Another part wants to beg you to take me in your arms and to make love to me until I forget everything but the feeling of being wrapped up in you."  I stop, laughing bitterly.  Harm looks at me oddly, trying to figure out the sudden change, but doesn't say anything.  

Finally, I sit down next to him, staring down at my hands in my lap.  "Sometimes, I wonder if I'm just using you," I admit hesitantly.  "I seduce you into taking me to bed and I forget for just a little bit, but then the moment's over and …."  I trail off, thinking about earlier today.  I never thought that it would ever be like that, not with Harm.  I think with him I was crazy enough to think that our relationship could be like a fairy tale, in spite of everything that's conspired to come between us, especially the last year and a half.

Harm's silent for what seems like an eternity, then he muses softly, "Do you think I haven't wondered the same thing?"  I look up at him, stunned.  It hurts, but I honestly haven't thought about that.  I don't think I can admit that to him, however.  "Saturday night …. or Sunday morning, I guess, when you found me at my desk cleaning my gun …. do you think it hasn't occurred to me that I was using you?  I had already spoken to Mic, knew that I was going to be meeting him in a few hours and I didn't know what was going to happen.  For a little bit, I just wanted to forget …."

Sunday morning – my mind has gone back to those moments so often that I've got it all memorized.  Every heated look, every blazing touch, every unspoken word replays in my mind in brilliant Technicolor.  I look back down again, not quite sure that I'm ready to tell him what's been going through my mind about that night.

Communication, Sarah, I remind myself.  Someone's got to start talking.  Maybe once someone starts talking, it will be like opening the floodgate.  Yeah, right.  That's not exactly how it worked in Sydney.  I opened up and Harm shut down.  "Harm, if I tell you something," I say, lifting my head, "will you promise me something?"  He nods silently and I force myself to continue.  "I want you to promise me that you will tell me what you're thinking, whether good or bad.  Please don't hold back because you afraid of hurting me."

I can tell he's uncertain, knowing that I wouldn't ask this unless I thought that he might have a negative reaction to what I'm about to say.  His eyes search mine for a moment before he finally nods.

Now that the moment's here, I'm not quite sure how to proceed.  I practically jump up from the bed and begin pacing the small confines of the room.  Still, Harm doesn't say anything and I suddenly stop and whirl on him, demanding, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

I'm sure I see a flash of pain in his eyes before the mask falls back into place, hiding his thoughts from me.  He shrugs uncertainly and says, "I was waiting for you to tell me what's on your mind."

"I'm sorry," I tell him sadly.  "I guess I'm just worried – or I guess afraid would be more accurate – that you're going to shut down on me …."

"….like on the ferry," he interrupts.  Reluctantly, I nod.  "I guess I deserve that."

I sit back down, taking his hands in mine, wondering again how we got to this place.  "That's just it," I counter.  "You don't deserve it, any more than you did my throwing my relationship with Mic in your face at the Sydney airport.  You made that damned comment about it being a friendship ring and that hurt so much.  I wanted to throw it in your face that at least there was one man who found me desirable, who wanted me when you didn't."  And look what it cost me.  I turned away from the one man whom I know I can trust absolutely with my life for a jealous man whom I'd never even dated and, until I'd accepted his ring, whom I hadn't even wanted to know in a romantic way.

Harm starts to say something, but I wave him off.  "I know," I continue.  "We've already discussed this.  I wasn't listening to what you were saying while you weren't saying it very clearly.  And I'm getting completely off the topic."  So far off the topic that I don't remember what …. oh, yeah.  I remember.

"Listen, we don't have to talk about it," he begins, sensing my reluctance to discuss it, but I shake my head.

"That's just it," I argue.  "We have to talk about it.  We have to talk about so many things.  I'm scared what will happen to us if we don't.  Look at what's already happened to us, ever since …. well, I was going to say since you left JAG, but it really started before that.  We weren't speaking when we were on the Watertown, but then we faced a deadly situation and all of a sudden everything was just fine.  But was it really?  I don't even remember what we were arguing about or even why anymore.  How long can we go on like that?  We keep avoiding dealing with the …. the deeper issues and how long will it be before the day comes when everything explodes in our faces and we can't recover?"

Harm pulls his hands from mine and wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him, pressing my head down to rest against his shoulder.  "I don't know," he admits.  "I wish I did, but …. why don't we start by you telling me what's on your mind and see if we can go from there."

See if we can go from there.  Sounds like he's about as confident about all of this as I am.  I almost lose my nerve, but then take a deep breath and steel myself.  "Well, Sunday morning, after you, um, left," I explain, "Bud and Harriet showed up.  I guess the Admiral called them and asked them to keep an eye on me while he was busy saving your six.  Anyway, there was stuff from the desk all over the floor and a pile of clothes."  I stop and laugh a little, although it sounds a little hollow.  "Actually, that part was a bit embarrassing."

He manages a laugh himself.  "I can almost image the look on Bud's face," he says.

"Yeah, it was …. " I trail off, realizing that I'm getting off topic again.  I shake my head as I continue, "I was picking up the clothes, trying to straighten up a little and everything just flashed in my mind with such clarity.  When we …." I stumble over the words, not quite sure what to call it.  I don't think we can quite call it 'making love' but simply calling it 'sex' seems almost demeaning, as if denying all the emotions the act encompassed.

"Go on," Harm encourages me, as if he understands my struggle.

"We forgot to use protection," I finally blurt out.  He just stares at me for a moment and I can't tell what he's thinking.  I'm beginning to regret ever bringing up this topic.  I should have just kept it to myself.  Then with my luck, I would end up pregnant and in a relationship that's falling apart.

"Why don't you tell me what about that bothers you?" he asks impassively, his expression neutral.  "Is it that one of us might have something or that you might end up pregnant or is it …. having a baby with me that upsets you?"

I can't help myself.  I start laughing.  "Mac, I don't really think this is very funny," he says, "especially if it's bothering you so much."

"I know it's not," I say, taking deep, gulping breaths as I try to control my laughter.  I don't know why I'm laughing.  This is about as far from funny as we can get.  I manage to bring myself under control somewhat and address his points one by one.  "The first never occurred to me and as for the third …. we do have a deal to have a baby together in a few years, or have you forgotten?"

His expression softens as he replies, "I haven't forgotten."  Then his expression falls.  "So it's just the idea of being pregnant that's so troublesome?"

"More like the idea of being pregnant right now," I clarify, my voice shaking.  "Harm, I'm so scared that we can't even hold us together.  How could we bring a baby into this?  But you know what the worse part is?  There's a part of me, deep down, that I barely want to admit to, that wants there to be a baby.  I'm terrified that we're falling apart and I'd do anything to hold us together, even bring an innocent child into this …. mess just to tie you to me."

Harm is silent, just staring at me, his expression devoid of emotion.  "Aren't you going to say anything?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice, frustrated with his lack of reaction.  "I said I wanted to hear what you're thinking, whether good or bad."

"I can't …. " he begins, but I interrupt angrily.

"Can't what?" I demand.  "Can't talk about it?  Isn't that what we agreed to do?  Why am I not surprised?  Harmon Rabb, the master of avoiding the deeper issues!"

"If you would let me finish," he says, his voice still infuriatingly neutral, "I can't say yet what I'm thinking.  You've been thinking and obsessing over this for almost two days.  I've had barely more than two minutes to digest this.  What happened to wanting to hear what I think, whether good or bad?"

"That was when I thought I'd actually hear what you are thinking," I retort, "instead of you sidestepping the issue."

Suddenly, he pulls away from me and stands, heading for the door.  "Where are you going?" I ask, furious.  I know I shouldn't be like that.  I should calm down and try to work this out.  But I'm so damned tired of this.  I'm getting whiplash from this 'one step forward, five steps back' we seem to keep doing.

"I need to think," he replies, just a hint of anger finally creeping into his voice.  I think I prefer that, negative though it is, to the cool indifference that I've gotten so far during this conversation.  But I don't want him to walk out.

"Harm, don't go," I plead, grabbing his arm.  "I need …."

He stiffens and jerks his arm away and his voice is so cold when he finally replies, "I don't think you really know what you need.  I had thought back in Sydney that you needed me to be a part of your life, but you proved me wrong there by running right into another man's arms as soon as he flashed a diamond ring under your nose."

Stunned, I open my mouth to speak, but can't make the words come out.  It doesn't matter anyway, because Harm has stalked out.  I hear his footsteps on the stairs as I slide to the floor, my back against the edge of the bed.  Oh, God, what have I done?  I'd almost think that I was trying to drive him away purposely.

I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs, holding myself so rigid in an effort to keep from shaking.  I don't remember being so scared in my life, not even those few seconds when it occurred to me that Mic might ….  I don't know if I can do this without Harm.  I've never been good at going it alone.  I don't know if I can make it now.

~*~*~*~

"Mac?"  The voice is so soft and gentle and it's startling to me.  No voice has ever existed like that before in my life.

I shift, groaning as my muscles protest being in an awkward position for God only knows how long.  Forcing my eyes to open, I realize that I'm still on the floor, leaning against the end of the bed.  I focus and realize that the voice calling my name isn't the one I want – no, need – to hear, but that doesn't mean it isn't welcome.  "Gram?  What are you doing up?  It's …. 1234 in the morning."

She doesn't answer, instead gently tugging on my arm, encouraging me to get up off the floor.  I accept the assistance, but suddenly gasp when she inadvertently presses against the bruises on my arm.  "Dear Lord, I'm sorry," she says.  She pulls her hand away, but hovers over me as I pull myself onto the bed.  She goes over and flips on the light then pushes up the sleeve of my t-shirt while I squint in the sudden brightness.

"It's, um …. " I begin, not really sure what to say.  The bruises on my arms are worse than the others –except for the one on my hip where I hit the desk – because he grabbed me twice and held on.  My eyes meet hers and I'm mildly surprised to see hers filling with tears.

"I can't imagine what kind of man could even conceive of treating a woman like this," she says softly, sitting down next to me on the bed, her hand on my shoulder.  I wish I could have grown up in a house like this, where there's so much love and acceptance and violence is a foreign language.  In spite of his losing his father at such a young age, I really envy Harm his family.  

"I guess I'm used to it," I admit, looking away from her.  "I don't know how much Harm has told you about me, but my family …. my father used to beat my mother.  She eventually left on my fifteenth birthday, leaving me with him.  I left as soon as I possibly could, but it was already too late.  I was an alcoholic, I married a man who ended up in prison, and I watched the closest thing I had to a friend kill himself in a drunk driving accident."

"But you've obviously moved past that," she says, but I shake my head.

"Not really," I point out.  "I fell off the wagon when one boyfriend died – and ended up saying some really hateful things to Harm.  My husband, whom I never divorced, came back to haunt me and I accidentally killed him.  You should have seen the look on Harm's face when he came down to the police station after I was arrested.  And then I get into a relationship with a man who turns out to be just like my father and that's all because I told Harm I wanted him and wasn't satisfied when he asked me to wait because he needed to work through some stuff first."

"But you've become a Marine," she counters, "and a successful lawyer.  That's something to be proud of."

I turn back to her, incredulous.  "Why are you being so nice to me?" I ask.  "I just told you how I keep hurting your grandson.  I was screaming at him in the yard earlier and I reminded myself of my father and the way he used to yell at my mother and me.  You know, all the studies say that abuse victims seek out abusive relationships, whether it's as the abused or the abuser.  A few days ago, I was the victim.  Now – I scared myself out there, thinking I could turn into my father."

"Because my grandson loves you," she replies, making it sound so simple, "and I trust his judgment.  He obviously has found something in you that makes him love you.  You know, he talks about you all the time – Mac did this, Mac won that case.  After you went to Russia the first time, he told me that he didn't know if he would have even survived if you hadn't been with him, watching out for him.  After the second time, he said that he'd never been so glad to see anyone in his life as he had been when you walked into that jail because he knew that with you helping them, he and Sergei would be fine.  He said if it weren't for you, he wouldn't have known about the assassination plot and that their lives were in danger.  I might have ended up burying both of my grandsons if it hadn't been for you.   That alone makes me eternally grateful to you."

"Did Harm also tell you how I left JAG to be with a man who seduced me into his world then later betrayed me by copying confidential information and nearly torpedoing one of Harm's cases?" I argue.  "Or about my not-so-ex-husband?  Actually, I just told you about that one.  Or how I couldn't see past the fact that I didn't want Harm to leave to be happy that he was getting a chance to recapture his lifelong dream of flying?  Or how I treated him like the town pariah when he came back?  Then there was the time when I refused to defend him when he was accused of violating Article 88 with that op-ed piece, using some flimsy excuse that he had to have seen through.  And I just told you about how I'd told Harm that I wanted a relationship with him, but what I didn't tell you is that a few days later, I accepted a ring from a man I'd never even dated and I threw it in Harm's face at the airport by throwing myself at Mic in front of him."

"You know, it sounds like you're much harder on yourself than everyone else is," she suggests.  She pushes my hair back from my face and it feels so good.  I don't remember my mother ever doing anything like that for me.   "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

I don't know what it is, but something about this woman makes me want to trust her and open up to her.  I guess I know where Harm gets it from.  I knew almost from the moment I met him that I could trust him with my life.  "Go ahead," I reply.

"You almost sound like you're trying to convince me why I shouldn't care about you," she continues.  "Is it because you don't think you deserve to be cared for?"

I feel the tears start to fall as I ponder the truth of her words.  "Gram," I begin, the familial name coming so easily, "I don't know what to do.  I don't know how to make it better.  I pushed Harm again tonight and then got angry when he didn't respond the way I wanted, almost like a replay of Sydney."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, merely looking at me with such compassion.  Finally, she says, "And this would be why Harm is sleeping on the couch, if his tossing and turning can be called sleeping, and you fell asleep on the floor leaning against the bed."

"Sunday morning," I explain, "very early, something happened and …. I don't know how to tell you …. Harm apparently received a phone call from Mic suggesting a meeting.  I woke up, realizing that Harm wasn't in bed with me and I found him at his desk, cleaning his gun.  There was a lot of stuff going through both our minds and we, um …."

"Slept together," she finishes, smiling a little at my shocked expression.  I'd never expected to be discussing something like this with Harm's eighty-something grandmother.  "I wasn't born yesterday.  I was married and …. well, in my day, people didn't talk about these kinds of things, but …. David and I had a very good …. physical relationship.  I even had a lover or two later, after Harmon was older and David had been gone for years.  I know all about the birds and the bees, or whatever they're called these days."

I manage a half-smile at her pronouncements and continue, feeling just a little more comfortable, "We slept together, but we weren't really thinking.  We'd been using, um, protection since we'd been …. with other people recently, even though I was on the pill.  But I'd gotten careless taking them and everything happened so fast …."

"Something tells me that you're not worried about either of you having a disease," she concludes.  "So I take it there is concern about a possible pregnancy?"

"It would be the right time of the month for me," I explain, "or as close as I can figure.  It's not that I don't want Harm's baby.  I do.  We've even discussed …. but that's not really the issue here.  I told Harm about my concerns tonight, telling him beforehand that I wanted to hear what he was thinking, whether good or bad.  When I was finished and I asked him to tell me what he thought, he said he needed more time to think and …. I got angry.  I wanted an answer right then and now and I didn't give a damn that I'd just dropped this in his lap without warning.  I think I would have rather heard him say that he hated me for not telling him what I was so worried about than to have not heard anything at all."

"Do you think that it's because you're looking for some certainty during such an uncertain time?" she muses.  "You feel like you're lost and you're looking something to hold onto.  I think you figured that even if Harm reacted negatively to the possibility that you could be pregnant, then at least you'd know for sure."

"You know what's funny?"  I ask, shaking my head while I don't deny any of her suggestions.  I can barely admit to myself that she's pretty on-target with her assertions.  "The possibility that I could be pregnant is pretty remote, in spite of our carelessness, but I've been obsessing over this for nearly two days.  What if I am?  I'm scared to bring a child into this, especially when Harm and I are so …. uncertain."

Gram doesn't say anything for a long moment, simply placing her arm around my shoulder.  I hesitate a moment, then lean closer, resting my head on her shoulder.  "It will be okay," she tries to assure me.  I lift my head up to stare at her.  I wish I could believe that.  My disbelief must show on my face because she adds, "I'm too old and have been through too much during my life to believe anything different.  It may be clichéd, but it's still true.  'This too shall pass.'  Now why don't you climb into bed and get some sleep?  I have a feeling that you haven't been sleeping that much since this all happened."

"I don't sleep that much anyway," I counter, chuckling half-heartedly.  She shoots me a look, one of those looks that a mother is supposed to give their children when she disapproves of something they've done, a disapproval born of concern and love.  At least, that's what I imagine it would look like.  I've never really experienced it myself.

"You need to lie down and get some sleep anyway," she says firmly, in a tone that invites no argument.  "It's nearly one in the morning and even you have to sleep sometime."

"I guess," I reply with a shrug, climbing under the covers and pulling them up under my chin.  As soon as I'm settled, I jump back up, tossing the covers back.  "What about Harm?  I should …."

"No," she interrupts, placing a hand on my shoulder and gently pushing me back down.  She pulls the covers back up and oddly I find myself unable to protest.  This sweet lady can be a steamroller when she wants to be.  So can her grandson.  I guess he comes by it honestly.  "I think you and Harm need a break from each other.  Take some time to calm down.  Tell me something – and I apologize beforehand if this sounds harsh – but do you think you can talk to Harm right now without it degenerating into another argument?"

I open my mouth to protest, but can't make myself utter the words because I know she's right.  Harm and I have already managed two fights in the space of three hours.  We just can't seem to help ourselves.  More accurately, I can't seem to help myself.  "I'm not saying this to be cruel," she insists again.  "I just don't want you and Harm to tear yourselves apart.  From what I've heard from my grandson over the years, I really think the two of you have something special.  It's a good thing that the two of you came up here."

"Why do you say that?" I ask, feeling far from optimistic about the way this trip has gone so far.

"Because there is something to be said for getting away from it all," she replies, brushing my hair from my face again.  That feels so comforting and I find myself closing my eyes, concentrating on the feel of her soft hand against my face.  "Oh, I'm not talking about running away and hiding.  God knows, everything that's happened back in Washington is still going to be there when you go back on Sunday.  But while you're here, the two of you can concentrate on your relationship.  Work on making it stronger and you can face whatever's waiting for you back home – together."

"Gram?" I begin hesitantly.  I clasp her hand in mine and squeeze gently.  "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she warns, her voice gentle.  "You and Harm do have a long road ahead of you and it won't be easy."

"I know," I admit, struggling to keep my voice from breaking.  She starts to leave, but I tug on her hand to stop her.  "Do something for me, Gram.  Please?"

"If I can."

"Check on Harm," I request.  "Let him know that someone loves him.  I want to but I don't know if I can right now.  You're …. right about Harm and I needing a little bit of time apart."

"I will," she promises.  "Now get some sleep."  I release her hand and she leaves, turning the light off as she goes through the doorway.  I feel a tear slip down my cheek and brush it away.  I wish it could be that simple, that Harm and I can fix what's going wrong between us with a few days away at the family farm, but I can't help remembering the last time I felt this far apart from Harm.  We barely spoke to each other for months after he returned from the Patrick Henry.  I don't know if we can survive that again.  I don't know if we can.

~*~*~*~


	6. Default Chapter

~*~*~*~

THE NEXT MORNING

I don't remember what time I gave up on getting any sleep.  Sometime during the night, I simply opened my eyes and stared at the shadows dancing across the wall opposite the couch, wondering what exactly happened, how everything has managed to go so wrong.  Not that laying here all night thinking about it has made it any more clear.

I never planned for Friday night to happen and I still haven't figured out why it happened.  I didn't wake up that morning and tell myself, 'Tonight I'm going to throw caution to the wind and make a move on my unavailable partner.'  I didn't suggest she come over to my place to work on the case as an excuse to seduce her into bed.  When we got caught in the rain and raced back to my apartment, I didn't suggest she hop in my shower to warm up just so I could join her there.

Do I regret that it happened?  I tell myself 'no', but it's hardly an unqualified one.  What a difference two days makes.  It was so easy to answer that question without thought or hesitation before she left to see Mic.  I've wanted her so long that I can't remember a time since I've known her when I didn't.  Being with her was everything I expected that it would be.  None of that changed.  But we never could have possibly imagined everything that came after.  

Or maybe we should have.  Wasn't I the one who wondered what Mic would say if he saw Mac in my Academy sweatshirt?  I should have gone with her as I'd suggested …. but would it have prevented what happened?  I want to believe that it would have made a difference, but …. I stare at my casted right wrist and come to the sad realization that it probably wouldn't have.  Yeah, maybe the two of us showing up together at Mac's apartment might have stopped the original beating, but given what happened after that, I'd be foolish to think that he would have just let Mac go quietly.  He still would have come after us.  Nothing could have prevented that – well, nothing except changing the outcome of a ferry ride on Sydney Harbor and you know what they say about hindsight.  It's the story of a large part of my life.

I hear a noise on the steps and glance that way, trying not to hope that it's Mac.  I know Gram suggested that we need some space, but I spent most of the night as I lay awake wishing that she would come down those stairs.  I wanted to see her so much, to reassure myself that she is still here, still with me.  Yeah, I could have just as easily gone upstairs.  Well, not so easily.  That's why we've spent the last five years dancing around each other, isn't it?  Why does it seem that the longer we go on, the more difficult it gets?

It's Gram who appears at the bottom of the steps and I can't help the sigh of disappointment that escapes my lips.  "That's hardly the most welcome greeting I've ever received," she comments dryly.

"I'm sorry, Gram," I say, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.  "It's not you.  It's …."  I trail off and look away.

Gram smiles sadly and sits down on the floor next to the couch, her legs tucked under her.  She brushes her hand over my cheek, a comforting gesture of long ago.  "You used to do that when I was a child," I remember fondly, managing a half smile.

"You were often so troubled after your father disappeared," she says.  "I liked to think that my presence helped to bring you a little bit of peace."

"It did," I tell her.  "I guess because Dad was your blood, too.  I thought you understood better anyone else could – now except maybe for Sergei.  I used to think that I had it so rough, growing up without him.  But at least I had six years with him.  He died before Sergei was even born.  I can't even imagine what it would have been like to never have known him at all."

"No matter how bad off you think your life is," she says with her usual wisdom, "there's usually someone who has less than you do.  But I don't think you've been lying here staring up at the ceiling thinking about your brother."

"You know me so well," I say, glancing towards the window above the couch.  The sky's starting to lighten and in a bit we might even see the sun.  Maybe.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks gently.  That's Gram.  She'd never push.  I could say 'no' and she'd drop the subject for now.  It wouldn't prevent her from bringing it up again later, but if I don't want to talk about it now, she won't make me.

"I don't know," I admit hesitantly.  "Maybe if I thought it would make all this easier …. talking to you won't solve anything with Mac.  I just …. I wish I could talk to her.  It used to be so much …. I don't know."

"Easier?" she asks.  "Less complicated?"

"I guess," I say, pausing to compose my thoughts so I don't ramble so much.  "It just never used to be like this.  Even back in the beginning, when I didn't even know her and had a hard time looking at her and not seeing Diane, we were just somehow able to connect.  When she told me she was an alcoholic, it was …. she didn't even stop to think 'I don't even know this guy.  Should I be telling him this?'."

"She somehow knew that she could trust you," Gram suggests, "just like you knew you could trust her when you escaped from the brig."  Did I tell Gram about that?  I am aware that she knew about the escape – the Admiral had called her just in case I headed up this way.  I look at her in puzzlement.  "You came up here at Christmas a few weeks after that, remember?  I'd asked you where you'd gone after you escaped."

"Oh, yeah."  Thinking about that time, showing up at Mac's apartment and being invited in without a second thought, I manage a bit more of a smile at that memory.  "Even before I fell in love with her …." I say before stopping myself.  "I guess it would be more accurate to say, 'even before I admitted that I had fallen in love with her'.  Anyway, before that, she was my best friend and I knew that I could trust her with my life.  Gram, it was so easy to see her as my best friend.  Why is it so difficult to be more than that?"

"That would be the sixty-four thousand dollar question, wouldn't it?" she muses.  "Do you know when that was, when you first fell in love with her?"

"I'm not sure," I reply, pushing myself into sitting position, draping my arm over the back of the couch, flexing my stiff fingers, trying to ignore the dull ache in my wrist as I do so.  I could take some painkillers, but they wouldn't help with the real pain that I'm feeling.  "I've wondered.  Almost from the beginning, I think.  I know in those first few moments, I looked at her and saw Diane.  It was hard not to.  Diane had only been dead a few months then.  But it wasn't long before I realized that she was completely different.  She was so closed off, even more than Kate was initially.  Before she told me about her alcoholism and I got hints about some of the things she'd been through in her life, I thought it was just a Marine thing, her distance.  But over the next few months, as we got to know each other, I guess it is like what you were saying about someone else being worse off.  She's had such a hard life and it's amazing how she's managed to overcome all that.  But Gram, why does it keep happening to her?  Even if he wasn't the one stalking her a few years ago, Dalton clearly was having a hard time letting go.  And there was the man who really was stalking her.  And Mic …. when I look back, I can see little things that suggested maybe things weren't quite right, but I couldn't do anything."

"Would she have even listened to you if you'd suggested it?" Gram wonders.  "Maybe, much as I hate to say this, she had to find out for herself just what kind of person this Mic is.  I know this is hard for you, but you can't protect her from everything bad that might happen to her and I wonder if that isn't part of the problem.  You keep wondering maybe if you'd done this or hadn't done that, you could have prevented what happened.  I know you, Harm.  You're like your father and grandfather in that way.  They were both very protective of those they love."

I don't say anything in response, but I don't have to.  Gram knows me too well, probably even better than Mom.  I'd almost think she is a mind reader.  Not expecting me to answer, she continues, "Now, I don't know Mac as well, although I feel I do know her pretty well through your eyes and I suspect she's torn between being the strong Marine she's made herself into and wanting to be taken care of.  I think that may be causing her to lash out, much as your perceived guilt is doing the same to you."

"So now what?" I ask in frustration.  "How do we get past that?"

"Do I look like I have 'God' stamped across my forehead?" she jokes, then turns serious.  "Harmon, if I knew the answer to that question, maybe I'd have the answer to a few of my own, like why your grandfather had to die when he did, leaving me with a two-year-old to raise or why your father spent eleven years as a prisoner in a God-forsaken country and died before he could see the fine men that his sons would become.  I don't think there are any right answers.  Sometimes all you can do is keep holding on, determined not to let it tear you apart.  At times, I think that's all that life's about – just trying to hold on."

"Easier said than done," I mutter under my breath, just loud enough that she hears.

"Harmon, if it were so easy," she admonishes me gently, "it wouldn't really be worth having, would it?  Sometimes we have to fight the hardest for the things that mean the most to us."

"I wish I knew how," I whisper, turning to stare out the window again.  "But it seems like we keep taking one step forward and two steps back."

Gram sits on the edge of the couch and pulls me into a hug which I eagerly return.  I remember when I was little, I used to think that I could feel better about most anything after a hug from her.  I'm older and unfortunately wiser now, but there's still something about a hug from your grandmother.  I glance up and catch sight of Mac standing on the stairs, watching us with an unreadable expression.  Involuntarily, I stiffen, almost as if I'm bracing myself for another disagreement or worse.  Gram notices and turns around, following my gaze.

"Good morning, Mac," Gram says, smiling.  She looks from one of us to the other sternly, as if daring us to start anything this morning.  "I'm going to go get breakfast started and put the coffee on."  She gets up and heads for the kitchen, leaving Mac and me staring at each other uncomfortably.  After a very long moment, Mac breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry about last night," she says softly, her eyes downcast as she grips the stair railing.  I can see her knuckles turning white from here.  "I overreacted.  I spent all night trying to figure out why.  I guess it's just the stress of everything that's happened."

"I probably shouldn't have stormed out of the bedroom, either," I offer.  If she can try, so can I.  Anyway, I don't think I can take another night like last night and she probably can't either.  I swing my legs off the couch and pat the cushion beside me.  She hesitates just long enough that it's noticeable, then descends the stairs and sits down next to me, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.  There's just enough distance between us that it feels like an invisible wall separating us.  "I won't bite," I joke half-heartedly in a lame attempt to lighten the mood.

"No, but I might," she says, attempting to smile in response to my feeble attempt at humor.  She lifts her eyes to mine and I can see the tears glistening there.  Hesitantly, I reach up and brush away a tear at the corner of her eye.  Once, I wouldn't have even paused before doing that, but now ….

"Stress has to relieve itself," I say, echoing a conversation from long ago.

"Yeah, but I shouldn't be taking it out on you," she insists, shaking her head.  "You're in this with me."

"But I wasn't almost engaged to the man," I remind her.  I study her for a moment, then take a deep breath.  "Do you really think you might be …. um, pregnant, I mean?"

"Honestly?" she muses.  "It's probably a million to one shot.  But it only takes one, uh, slip-up …."

"True."  Another heavy silence hangs between us and I look away.  There's something that I kept coming back to in my mind last night, but I'm not sure how to broach the subject.

"Harm?" she asks, putting her hand on my shoulder.  I look back at her and try to smile, but it's hard.  "Tell me what you're thinking."

Looking into her eyes, I decide to go for broke.  After all, how much worse can it possibly get?  Well, she could walk out, but I'm not sure that she's not already on the verge of doing that now.  "If you are, well, you know," I say, stumbling over the words.  Damn, it wasn't this hard to suggest we have a baby together a year and a half ago.  But this is more than that.  "Are you sure that …. um, you were involved with …."

I'm not sure whether it's a good thing or not, but Mac seems to understand what I'm trying to say and I can see the mask falling over her expression, so I can't tell whether she's hurt or angry or something else about what I'm suggesting.  "As you already know," she says slowly, careful to keep any hint of emotion out of her voice, "things were hardly the greatest between Mic and me before all this.  And he was out of town a lot and I was busy, so we haven't …. " She trails off, probably about as uncomfortable talking about her sex life with Mic as I am about hearing about it.  "There's nothing to worry about on that score."

"I wasn't asking because of me," I assure her.  "I do love you and would love your child, regardless of how or …. with whom it was conceived.  I was thinking more of what Mic might do if you were pregnant with his child."

"You want to hear something?" she asks.  I'm not really sure, but I nod anyway.  "I had always been careful about protection when I was with him.  I don't know.  Maybe in the back of my mind, I kept remembering our deal and I didn't want to give up on that until …. Maybe it wasn't fair to Mic, always holding back a part of myself."

"It doesn't matter," I tell her, pulling her into my arms.  She doesn't resist, resting her head against my shoulder, wrapping her arms around me.  "It still doesn't excuse how he treated you."

"No, it doesn't," she agrees firmly.  Not that I think she would be the type to 'blame the victim', so to speak, but I still feel the need to point it out.  At least she sounds a little bit more like the gung-ho Marine I know and love.  "I know that, in my head.  But sometimes I think the scared little girl who used to huddle in the corner with her hands pressed over her ears when her dad would beat her mom and the teenager who lost herself in the bottle after her mom ran away are still locked in here somewhere and they're just dying to be unleashed."

Something of the alarm I feel at that last statement must show on my face, because she quickly adds, "I *do not* want a drink and I don't really care for hiding in corners anymore.  The Marine in me is managing to keep those urges at bay.  That and writing down my thoughts."

"Is that something the shr …. doctor suggested?" I ask, not sure I really want to go there.  We haven't really talked about it, except that she didn't want to talk about it when she got back from her appointment, and I have a feeling it still has the potential to be a touchy subject.  I'm pretty sure I'm disappointing her, or maybe more, with my reluctance to go to sessions with her.  Actually, I wouldn't have a problem taking her to the sessions.  It's actually opening my mouth to speak.  If I've had a hard time telling Mac a lot of this stuff over the last five years, what makes her think I can tell a complete stranger?  But I have a feeling that if I try to tell Mac that, it will degenerate into another argument.

"Not exactly," she replies, picking at some lint on the blanket draped over my legs.  "She wanted me to examine a situation where Mic's behavior bothered me and write out what I was feeling at that time.  I thought it might help last night when I couldn't sleep, only it was more about my behavior last night …. and earlier."

Earlier?  What's she mean by that?  Aside from my reluctance to go to sessions with her, nothing happened before last night, at least with us.  We were fine before the whole thing with my not telling Gram beforehand what had happened and why we came up here.  I think we were fine.  But something tells me that it's something with us and not with Mic, at least not directly.  "Mac …." I begin, but she raises her hand to stop me, shaking her head.

"I'll be right back," she says, jumping up and sprinting for the stairs before I can ask any questions.  I think I know what she's doing, but I'm not sure about this.  Would she expect a reciprocal gesture?  That scares me, especially since I haven't been able to open my mouth since we've been up here without everything going to hell.  She returns a moment later clutching a spiral bound notebook in her hands.

"Mac, you don't have to …. " I begin as she sits back down, holding the notebook out to me.  "If you're not comfortable with this …."

"No, it's okay," she says, not sounding all too sure herself.  "I want you to know what I'm thinking.  Maybe if I'd told you up front what I was thinking about a possible pregnancy, then …."

"Wait a minute," I say, grabbing her hand.  "When would you have told me?  If you'll remember, not long after the incident in question, I met with Brumby and ended up spending half the day in the hospital and then answering a bunch of questions from the police.  Then yesterday we were in court, then you had your appointment, then we drove up here and we weren't exactly talkative on the ride up."  Wait a minute.  When did I figure all this out?  I spent all night lying awake tormenting myself with what happened and all of a sudden I've got it figured out?

A thoughtful look crosses her features and her next words confirm the suspicion that's forming in my mind.  "I never even thought of that," she says quietly.  Yeah, well, she's not alone there.  She then laughs bitterly.  "I guess I've blown this whole thing out of proportion."

"I wouldn't say that," I counter.  She looks at me uncertainly, but I shake my head.  "No, you're simply reacting to all the stress.  Would you like to know what I would have said if given a chance to think about it last night?"

She hesitates a moment, then nods and I continue, "Granted, this would not be the best time for that.  But if it has happened, we'll handle it.  We already have a deal to have a baby together, remember?  I can't imagine loving a child of ours any less because the circumstances of it's conception were less than ideal."

"It's not that so much, but …. what kind of parents would we be if we manage to self-destruct our relationship?" she wonders, turning to stare out the window.  "Or I don't want us staying together, always hurting each other, just because there's a child involved.  None of that is how I imagined it happening."

"You've imagined it?" I ask, with more delighted interest than I probably should given the gravity of the situation.

She smiles slightly as she turns back to me and holds out the notebook again.  "Yeah, I did," she replies.  "That's in here, too.  I was trying to figure out why I was obsessing over it too much."

Swallowing hard, I finally take the notebook from her and slowly open it.  The first page is full of doodles, as if she was still undecided about whether or not to write all this down.  I smile, probably the most heartfelt one since this whole situation began, as my gaze falls on one particular image.  She drew a heart with an arrow through it, our initials inside the heart.  It looks like something that would be carved on the trunk of a tree.  Elsewhere on the page, she's drawn another heart, 'Sarah loves Harm' written on the inside.  It's like what I remember catching glimpses of in the notebooks of girls I went to school with.  It seemed kind of silly back then to me.  This touches me in ways I can't begin to explain, maybe because I know that her childhood didn't leave room for such frivolity.

"That's not what you're supposed to be looking at," she says, her cheeks flushing pink.  She attempts to turn the page, but I pull the book away.

"Hey, I was looking at that," I protest playfully, leaning over and planting a kiss on the tip of her nose.  Startled, she lifts her head, leaving my lips hovering just above her.  Her lips part slightly and I take advantage, lightly brushing my lips over hers.  She murmurs softly and I pull her against me, deepening the kiss, dropping the notebook to the couch as I tangle my fingers in her hair.  The kiss quickly grows in intensity and I'm laying back on the couch, pulling her on top of me.  She presses her hips against mine as my lips leave hers to latch onto her ear lobe, tugging it into my mouth.

The sound of a throat clearing has us pulling apart as if we've been burned.  I sit back up and make sure the blanket is properly covering me, protecting my grandmother from things she doesn't really need to see, while Mac runs her hands through her mused hair, biting her lower lip as her cheeks flush even redder than before.  Shit.  I don't know whether to have a heart attack or burrow under my blanket.

"I just wanted to let you know that breakfast is ready," Gram says with a trace of amusement.  She turns to leave, then looks back over her shoulder at us.  "Don't worry, Harmon.  I won't do what I did the last time that happened."

After she leaves, Mac opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.   "I guess we got carried away and forgot Gram was just in the other room," I offer lamely.

"I can't believe we got caught by your grandmother," she manages to choke out.  She shakes her head and I'm almost positive she's trying hard not to laugh.  "Um, what did she mean about not doing …?"  Finally, she gives up the effort and burst out laughing, burying her head in her hands.

"It's not that funny," I protest weakly.  Okay, so it is.  I just turned thirty-seven years old and my eighty-one year old grandmother just caught me making out with my girlfriend on the couch.  But at least this isn't like that last time Gram was referring to.   Swallowing back my own laughter, I explain, "One summer, I was staying here with Gram for a month and met this girl that I was interested in.  Janie or Jennie – I can't remember her name anymore.  We'd gone out for a walk and when we got back here Gram wasn't home.  We were talking and one thing led to another and when Gram came home, we were on the couch kissing and I think my hand was under her shirt."

"So what did your grandmother do?" she asks, a mischievous gleam in her eye.  I imagine that she's trying to picture the scene.  Glad I could provide so much amusement.

"Called my parents," I reply with a groan.

"And you were how old?" she asks, laughing harder.

"Uh, fifteen," I say reluctantly.  She doesn't say anything, simply laughing more and I pick up the notebook, lightly smacking her thigh.  "It wasn't funny."

"Um, no, I imagine it wasn't," she says, struggling to bring her amusement under control.  "So I take it your parents weren't thrilled?"

"I think Mom was about to have a heart attack," I remember.  They were in New York on a vacation of their own and hopped on the next flight to Pittsburgh.  It was one of the few times I recall even feeling a little bit angry at Gram, although in retrospect, I have to admit that her reaction was probably justified.  Mom did overreact a little.  She even accused Frank of taking the attitude 'Boys will be boys' when he asked to be allowed to handle things with me.  Frank was pretty understanding, but not lenient as Mom thought he might be, although I never would have admitted that back then.  "And Frank sat me down for 'The Talk', although I tried my best to blow him off.  Then Mom insisted that they take me back to New York with them while they finished their week on the town.  I was miserable and took it out on them by being a royal pain in the ass.  And what's her name wouldn't even speak to me the next time I came to Beallsville."

"At least you knew they cared," she points out sadly, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them tightly.  "I was not quite sixteen when I first, uh, when I lost my virginity.  I was so drunk at the time that I don't really remember whether it was a good or bad experience.  Hell, it was only the blood and the fact that I was sore that gave me a clue to what had happened.   My dad was passed out drunk that night, so he didn't even notice that I didn't get home until two a.m.  I would have given anything to grow up in a family like yours.  I had Uncle Matt, but he was still active duty back then, stationed at Camp Lejeune."

I'm not sure what to say – or if I should even say anything – in response to her admission, so I settle for taking her hand, linking my fingers with hers.  She looks down at her joined hands then back at me, her face lighting up with a smile.  We sit her like this for a few moments, enjoying the all too rare peace that has descended over us.  It's strange to think that we're managing to find common ground in our divergent childhoods.  Well, not quite common.  But it's something that we can talk about and right now, that's something.

"Hey, didn't your grandmother say something about breakfast being ready?" Mac asks, breaking the silence.  I can't help but laugh, seeing a glimpse of the Mac I know and fell in love with.  Her question, odd as it seems, gives me just a little more faith that everything will eventually be okay.

~*~*~*~

SEVERAL HOURS LATER

"How big is the farm, anyway?" Mac asks.  After a leisurely breakfast – I can't remember the last time either of us had time for that – we sat down with Gram in the living room and just visited for a while.  She got Mac to talk a little about her recent televised trial, Gram having watched because she was curious to see Mac in action, although we avoided any talk of the _People Magazine article due to it's connection to Mic.  In fact, I caught Gram hiding her copy of the magazine before we sat down, although I don't think Mac did, which I'm grateful for.  I talked about my recent investigation and how grateful the sailor's grandmother was to know the truth about his death.  Mac even had an envelope of pictures that Harriet had given her of AJ which we proudly showed off.  One of my favorites, from earlier this summer, is of AJ sitting on my shoulders as I stand next to 'Sarah' at the Leesburg airfield.  There were even a few photos from AJ's first birthday party six months ago of the three of us – AJ, Mac and me – probably some of the few pictures of Mac and myself from the last eighteen months._

Gram left for town to run some errands, which is how I ended up offering to show Mac around the farm.  She had asked if we wanted to accompany her, but I'm not sure either of us are ready to face a bunch of strangers – strangers to Mac, anyway – and to have to explain our obvious injuries.  After a brief uncomfortable silence, I politely declined and suggested the current tour instead.  Mac was grateful and Gram was understanding.

"Only about a hundred acres now," I reply.  "It's not as large as it used to be.  I think it was about five hundred at it's largest, in the late 1800s.  My great-grandfather sold off some of it after World War I, then after my grandfather died, Gram couldn't keep up the farm on her own, and without a lot of help to manage the place she sold off more sections of it.  Most of her closest neighbors live on what used to be Rabb land."  I was raised with a knowledge of where our family came from and all they've accomplished, including their service to their country.  I remember Dad once telling me that a Rabb has served in every war this country has fought in going back before there even was a United States, to the French and Indian War.  Of course, at the age of five, I didn't even know what the French and Indian War was.

"So are you someday going to come up here and be a farmer?" she teases.  

"I hadn't really thought about it," I say quietly.  To think about it, I'd have to admit that someday Gram is going to die.  Realistically, I know that day will come.  Doesn't mean I want to think about that eventuality, although it's not like when I was younger and was convinced Gram would live forever.  "I think Sergei would like this place.  It's not all that different from his mother's farm in Svischevo."

"Thinking about trying to convince him to come to the US?" she asks.

"Gram would like to get to know her other grandson," I reply wistfully.  "They write to each other and I think they've spoken on the phone a few times, but it's not the same thing.  Mac, she's eighty-one years old.  She deserves to know her other grandchild before …."  I choke on the rest of the statement.

I take a few more steps before I realize that she's not beside me.  I stop and turn around to find her watching me with sympathy.  "This isn't just about your grandmother," she says with certainty.   "It's just as important for you.  You like the idea of being an older brother, don't you?"

"Did I tell you about how we first met and what happened just before he told me that he was my brother?" I ask.

"Yeah," she replies, smiling.  "On the flight home, remember?  It's a long flight from Moscow to Washington."

That's right.  It gave us something to talk about that had nothing to do with Mic or Renee or the impossible situation between us.  It was amazing how much I could find to talk about a brother I barely knew during an eleven hour flight.  "I didn't like him at first," I recall.  "I just seemed to make sense that he had been the one who had betrayed the convoy."

"Yeah, but that lasted until about two seconds after he told you he is your brother," she says with certainty, even though she wasn't there yet.  "I know you.  From the way you were talking during the flight, you immediately went into protective big brother mode, defending him to Captain Volkonov and then at his trial."

"Until I found out that I had a brother," I say sadly, "I never really realized how much I wanted a brother …. or a sister would have been okay, too."

Mac laughs, a bright beautiful sound that I haven't heard enough recently.  "I can see you with a sister," she teases.  "Talk about playing the protective big brother.  If you had a sister, heaven help the man who would look twice at her."

I have to grin at that one.  Yeah, I probably would be like that.  After all, if I was like that with Mac – and she's far from being my sister – I would probably be just as bad, if not worse, with a female who was my own flesh and blood.  "When Mom was in Washington a few weeks ago," I say, turning serious, "I asked her why she and Frank never had kids of their own …. " I trail off and look around us, immediately recognizing where we are.  "Come here."  I take her hand and motion her to follow me.  We walk over a small hill, to a small creek that flows along one edge of the farm.  It's one of my two favorite places on the farm, one of my 'get away from it all' locations.  I sit down on the bank and tug on her hand.  She sits next to me, stretching her legs out in front of her.

"I think I stunned Mom with the question," I continue.  I can still see the shocked expression on her face.  It was at least a minute before she even tried to answer.  "She was pretty evasive, saying that Frank was busy traveling between San Diego and Detroit for Chrysler and she was trying to get the gallery off the ground back then.  I stunned her even more when I asked her if I'd played any part in the decision, if they'd decided it was best not to rock the boat anymore as far as I was concerned."  I look away, remembering the even longer silence that followed that question.  I wasn't sure at first if she was more surprised or hurt by the query.

"Harm?" she asks, concerned, her hand on my knee.  

"I guess I never really realized until I found out about Sergei just what I'd missed out on," I say with longing.  "And it doesn't matter to me that we only share one parent.  He's still my brother.  I guess that's when I figured out that I wish Mom and Frank would have had a child.  I would have loved having a brother or sister growing up."

"Look at how you are with Bud and Harriet," she points out, her tone matching mine.  "You would have made a great big brother.  Most of the time, I'm glad I was an only child.  I wouldn't wish my childhood on anyone, let alone my own sibling. But sometimes …. I wished I would have had someone to share things with, someone who would have understood."

"I know what you mean," I reply quietly.  "I guess we were both wishing for the same thing."

"Funny, isn't it?" she muses.  "We grew up in such different circumstances, but we ended up wanting some of the same things."

"We're all searching for something," I say, the words giving me a feeling of déjà vu.  Maybe Mac said something like that once.  I'm not sure.  "Is it really surprising that we might have been looking for the same things?"

"I used to think no one could possibly understand what I felt or wanted," she says with a sigh, lying back on the grass, crossing her arms over her chest.  "I didn't know anyone else who had a drunk, abusive father, a terrified mother who ran away when I was fifteen, their own problem with the bottle by the time they were sixteen and who nearly got killed in a drunk driving accident at nineteen before being faced with the reality that enough was enough.  Look at Bud.  We've met his father, seen first-hand what he's done to Mikey.  It's not hard to imagine what his life was like growing up.  But he seems so well-adjusted.  I wonder how he manages."

"I think you'd be surprised," I say, hesitating as she turns her head to study me intently, obviously curious about what that statement means.  I'm not sure if I should tell her some of the things Bud has told me.  Although it wasn't implicitly stated, I'm sure those things were revealed in confidence.  But this is Mac – she knows some of what he went through and it's not like she would turn around and start telling others or tell Bud that I told her.  "He came over to my apartment one evening a few days before the wedding – I think it was the same day his dad had shown up at JAG.  He told me about his dad being abusive and he said that he hadn't told Harriet.  He was worried that she would have second thoughts and might think that he would be that way with their kids.  Although he didn't say it, I think there was a part of him that was worried about the same thing, that he would become his father."

"I can't imagine Bud ever turning into his father," she says softly, turning her gaze away.  "He's a wonderful husband and father.  Do you remember the look on his face when AJ was born, the wonder in his voice?  I have a hard time picturing his father like that."

"I remember a lot of things about that day," I reply.  I'd never thought I would see anything as …. beautiful …. as watching Bud and Harriet with their newborn son.  Then there was the relief and joy on Mac's face as we watched our godson take his first breaths, a look I'm sure was mirrored on my face.  Even the Admiral was visibly affected by the emotional scene.  And then there was what came after …. "Mac, can I ask you something?"  It seems safer to ask right now, to give her the right to refuse to answer.

"You're wondering if I'm thinking that I might turn into my parents with any children we might have," she states.  She doesn't even wait for my reply before going on.  "I've thought about that so many times.  Look at what happened when Dalton died.  I lashed out at the person I love most in the world after a moment of weakness.  I opened my mouth and I could hear my father's voice coming out of my mouth."

I'm not sure what to say to that.  I could excuse away her behavior by saying that she was under a lot of stress, that she'd had a momentary lapse by turning to the bottle.  But I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to hear that right now and she would probably point out that if it happened once, it could conceivably happen again.  "I won't try to tell you that it could never happen again," I say, carefully considering my words before I say them.  "You and I both know that neither of us can make any guarantees about that.  I don't claim to understand what you go through every day.  After you fell off the wagon, I went to a few of those meetings for families of alcoholics.  I wanted to know what I could do to prevent it from happening again."  With that admission, it suddenly occurs to me.  Why was it so easy then and so difficult now?  Doesn't what she's asking me to do with the shrink amount to pretty much the same thing?  Although I admit I probably did listen more than I spoke at those meetings.  It's easier to lose yourself in a group than in a one-on-one session.

"And I'm sure you weren't happy to hear that aside from letting me know that you were there for me if I needed you," she concludes, "there isn't anything.  I'm the alcoholic and it's my choice to either stay on the wagon or fall off.  You can't make that choice for me.  Remember when you poured out the alcohol in your apartment the other day?  If I had really wanted to get drunk, that wouldn't have stopped me.  Nothing would, short of maybe locking me up, which probably only would have served to piss me off.  Where there's a will, there's a way.  It's just a matter of the will to stay sober being stronger than the desire to drink.  That's one of the first things I learned in AA.  When Uncle Matt agreed to put me through college and help me get into the Marines, I made a deal with him to attend meetings regularly.  At my first meeting, when I told my story, I talked about how Uncle Matt was the one who'd taken me up to Red Rock Mesa, how he was the one who wanted me to attend AA.  Someone pointed out that if I hadn't really wanted to stop drinking, nothing Uncle Matt could have done would have gotten me to stop.  He might have shown me the way, but it was ultimately my decision to turn things around."

"Throwing out the alcohol was a knee-jerk reaction," I admit.  I'd felt so …. I don't know, but removing any source of temptation from the apartment had seemed like a good idea at the time.  "I just felt I had to do something.  It was one of the few things about this situation that I felt I had some measure of control over."

"You can't protect me from everything," she says, finally turning back to face me.  "And that bothers you, doesn't it?  You'd go to the ends of the earth for those closest to you, but this is one situation that you, to a large extent, have no control over and it's …."

"Driving me crazy?" I finish for her.

"Well, I was trying to put it a little more diplomatically," she says with a light laugh.  "But …. yeah, I guess."

"Gram said the same thing," I say, "before you came downstairs this morning.  She said basically that it's my instinct to be protective and I can't protect you from this."

"There's a part of me that wishes you could," she sighs.  "I wish that you could just take me into your arms and make all of this would go away.  But I know realistically that getting through this will depend in large part on my ability to stand on my own two feet and to face what happened, to face the part that my own actions playing in that, going back to Sydney."

"Gram said something like that, too," I say.  Coming up here is looking better and better all the time.  Gram may joke that she doesn't have 'God' stamped across her forehead, but she's one of the best studies of human nature I've ever seen.  God knows, after thirty-seven years, she should have plenty of insight into my nature.  Mac's a bit trickier, but as she pointed out, she's learned a lot from what I've said about Mac over the years.

"Your grandmother's a very wise woman," she says, pushing herself up into a sitting position, brushing grass and twigs from her clothes and hair.  "Harm, I'm glad we came up here.  I know you're, uh, apprehensive about the whole therapy issue, but Dr. Embry suggested that maybe I should let you find your own way in that.  If you feel more comfortable talking to your grandmother, then I should encourage that rather than trying to suggest that you do something you're wary about.  It might be detrimental in the long run."

"I haven't closed the door on the therapy issue," I assure her, what I said a few minutes ago replaying in my mind.  "I just …. need more time."

"And I am trying to respect that," she says gently.  She pauses and then a beautiful smile lights up her face.  "Do you know something?  We're managed to have a deep, heartfelt conversation without running away from the issues or tearing into each other.  If we can do it once, do you think we can manage to do it again and again until we get through this?"

"I want to, Sarah," I say, brushing my fingers over her face.  "I want that more than anything."

"So do I," she replies, leaning in to lightly press her lips to mine.  It remains soft and gentle, our hands lazily roaming over each other's bodies.  As we break apart, our foreheads resting together, our breathing is slightly unsteady.

"Come somewhere with me?" I ask hopefully, gently rubbing my thumb over her bottom lip.

"Does somewhere involve you and me alone and a bed?" she asks in a seductive whisper, a gleam in her eyes.

"Um, yes and not really," I reply vaguely, moving to stand.  Without thinking about it, I put my right hand down to balance myself as I get up, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through my arm.

Mac quickly stands and offers a hand to help me up, which I accept with a grimace.  "I'm not used to not being able to use my right hand," I explain as she lifts that hand to her lips, kissing the tips of my fingers.  I feel better for reasons that have nothing to do with how my arm feels.  "Anyway, this creek bank is one of my two favorite places on the farm.  I want to show you the other."

"Lead the way," she says, linking her arm with mine.  "And thank you."

"For what?" I ask, starting us off back towards the house.

She shrugs.  "A lot of things," she replies, "but specifically for sharing with me.  I love that you're trying."  
~*~*~*~

"A barn?" she asks with amusement and just a hint of something else in her voice that tells me some of her thoughts are definitely not fit for public airing.

"Not exactly," I say, struggling with the heavy door.  They really knew how to build solid buildings in the previous century.  I guess this was easier when I was so upset last night.  Mac slips between me and the door and grasps it, helping me pull it open over the uneven ground.  "The barn for the animals is that smaller building over there, although I think this was a hay barn once upon a time.  But after that, it was used as a combination carriage house – back when we had such things, although there's still a small wagon in here – and workshop.  My great-grandfather liked to work with wood.  In fact, he built most of the furniture in the house out here.  This is where I was last night after our, um, argument in the yard.  And I restored 'Sarah' in here."  

I find a box of matches on a shelf along one wall and light a lantern hanging from a hook by the door.  I blow the match out and drop it in a nearby trash bin.  I learned to be careful disposing of matches.  When I was eight, I came out here with Gram and wanted to show her what a big boy I was by lighting the lantern for her.  After I'd blown out the match, I'd dropped it accidentally and the still-smoldering stick had ignited the hay under our feet.  If she hadn't been with me to quickly deal with the flames, I might have ended up burning down the building and God only knows what else.  I tell Mac the story and when she laughs, I ask her what is so funny.

"Just trying to imagine you as an eight-year-old," she says.

"I'm sure Gram could probably tell you plenty of stories," I say, instantly regretting speaking out when I see the delighted look on her face.  

"I'll have to get her to share," she says with a grin. 

"Just remember that I was young back then," I caution.

"I didn't realize getting older had made you any less adventuresome," she points out, wandering around the large, open room.  "You forget I've seen plenty of your stunts myself and could possibly tell your grandmother a story or two."

I ponder that, trying to remember if Mac knows anything that I haven't already filled Gram in on.  She probably does.  No matter how close we are, I don't tell Gram *everything*.  "Just warn me beforehand so I can be somewhere else when you and Gram start swapping stories," I tease.

She turns to face me with a smirk and I get the impression that I don't want to know what she is thinking.  "So just how many other girls have you brought out here?" she asks.

I knew I didn't want to know.  "None," I say.

She clearly doesn't believe me.  "Not even Janie or Jennie or whatever?" she probes.

I shake my head.  "Remember, I said she wanted nothing to do with me after what happened," I say, slowly advancing on her.  "And after that little episode, I got very careful about what I did with girls around here and where I did it."

She laughs as I reach her and pull her into my arms, letting my hands roam over her back and rear.  "So is this some kind of fantasy of yours, bringing some girl out here and having your way with her?" she teases, her hands moving between us to slide over my chest before slipping further down.

"Not just any girl," I reply, pulling away and motioning her towards a relatively empty corner of the room.  She watches me, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, as I hunt up a blanket and spread it out over the hay and sawdust covering the floor.  I learned early while fixing up my plane that it gets uncomfortable sitting in the hay for any length of time.  I can't imagine rolling around on top of it would be much different.  Finished setting the scene, so to speak, I drop to my knees on the blanket and grab her waist as best I can, pulling her down with me.  "But after I suggested flying up here – before everything happened – I did have this pretty hot fantasy about having my way with you in here."

Before she can say anything, I dip my head down, nuzzling my lips against a spot just below her ear as she murmurs softly.  After lingering for a moment, I move over and around her neck, raining light kisses over her throat, occasionally swiping at her skin with my tongue.  I tug her shirt from her jeans and slip my hands underneath, my fingers searching for the clasp to her bra.  

She laughs.  "It's in the front," she says.

"And you couldn't tell me that before?" I say in mock consternation, pulling back just enough to yank the t-shirt over her head as her breath quickens.

"Harm, please," she moans.  I know what she wants, but I want to draw this out.  I need her to know that in spite of everything that seems to keep happening to us and between us, I still love and cherish her.  Pressing her back onto the blanket, I prop myself up on my elbows over her, ignoring the slight pain in my right arm.  Starting at her waist, I trail kisses along the waistband of her jeans, pausing to dip my tongue into her navel.  Slowly, I work my way up her stomach, my mouth leaving its mark on every exposed inch of skin.  

She moans in disappointment when I leave off at the bottom of her bra and slide up, starting again at her neck and working my way down.  "Harm," she protests again.

"Patience," I murmur, delighting in the shiver that goes through her as my breath blows against her skin.  I go with that and begin alternating kisses with blowing lighting on her skin.  Eventually, my mouth closes around the clasp of her bra.  I fumble with it for a moment before I finally manage to open it, bringing a laugh from Mac.  

"Hey, that's not as easy as some people make it out to be," I protest as I push the bra aside.

"I don't think I've ever had a guy try …." she begins, breaking off on a sharp gasp of breath.  Her eyes drift closed, her fingers threading through my hair as she holds me against her.  

Her hands leave my hair, sliding down my back and over my rear, pulling me harder against her.  I'd wanted to go slow, but after a sleepless night of wanting her, my need for her is almost desperate.  Pulling out of her embrace and sitting up, I start to pull my shirt over my head, but she sits up and stops me.  

"Let me," she requests.  I release the fabric and let her remove it.  She starts at my shoulders, her hands running over my chest.  "Harm, do you have ….?"

I know what she's asking and I reach into a rear pocket of my jeans and pull out a packet.  "I wasn't sure what would happen," I say, a bit nervously.  It would have been so easy for us to move backwards instead of forward today.  "I didn't want to risk being unprepared."  I set the packet aside and release the button on her jeans with a pop, then sliding the zipper down.  She leans back, propping herself up on her arms and lifting her hips as I slide her jeans and panties down her legs.  I stop to pull off her sneakers and socks, then pull her clothes off the rest of the way and toss them to one corner of the blanket.

She returns the favor, helping me remove the rest of my clothes.  Now I'm the one pleading on a gasp of breath, "Sarah …."  

Suddenly, she takes control, pushing me onto my back and straddling my hips.  Our eyes lock as we come together and she props herself up on her elbows, her hair falling around her face.  I reach up and push it back behind her ears.  I want to see her, the slight flush in her cheeks, the bright light in her eyes.  I trail a finger across her cheek and her full lips.  "I love you," I whisper, lifting my head up to brush my lips over hers.

"I love you, too," she returns, slowly beginning to move over me.  She takes my hand and kisses my fingers, then draws the tip of one into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it.  She pushes up on her arms, leaning back, and releases my finger.  

She comes softly, her eyes sparkling brightly as she struggles to keep them open and focused on me, her body gently trembling above mine.  Soon, I'm following her over the edge, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her against me as I bury my face against her neck.  I slowly run my good hand over her body as I inhale the heady scent of us and the hay around us.

As if by an unspoken signal, Mac pulls out of my arms and I get up and dispose of the condom.  When I turn back around, she's stretched out on her back on the blanket, her arms raised above her head.  With a grin, I drop to my knees beside her and kiss my way up her body.  She's laughing as I finally reach her mouth.  "Ready for round two already?" she teases in a soft, seductive tone.

I laugh with her as I gather her into my arms, rolling onto my back and pulling her on top of me.  "Give me a break," I counter in mock complaint.  "I'm getting old here."

"Oh, yeah," she says with a grin.  "Didn't someone just celebrate a birthday a couple of weeks ago?"

We laugh together for a moment, then I suddenly grow serious.  "I wish you could have been there with me," I say.  "We've wasted so much time and …. " I can't finish the thought, don't want to contemplate that we've wasted so much time that there's no way to get past that.

"It'll be okay," she tries to assure me, sounding far from certain herself as she pillows her head on my shoulder.  "It has to be."

It has to be.  I ponder her words as I pull the blanket around us to ward off the slight chill in the air.  To finally have within our grasp everything we've wanted for so long – I don't know what we'll do if we can't hold onto it.

~*~*~*~

"Mac, where's the notebook?" I ask as we're getting ready for bed.  We visited some more with Gram after dinner, then excused ourselves to go to bed early.  A short nap earlier in the barn just did not make up for the lack of sleep last night.

She turns to me, her hands frozen on the waistband of her jeans.  I'm not sure if she forgot about it or thought that I had.  Or maybe she thought I was avoiding it.  Neither of us has mentioned it since this morning.  "You want to read it now?" she asks uncertainly.

"You asked me to read it earlier," I reply after taking a deep breath.  This is potentially dangerous water and I'm not sure of the wisdom of bringing the subject up.  Maybe I should have waited for her to mention it again.  "I thought you wanted me to read it."

She walks over the to dresser and picks up the notebook.  "We'd left this downstairs earlier," she says, her back to me.  I can see her hands shaking slightly and I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her.  "Gram looked at the first page, figured it was mine, then brought it up here for me."  She laughs, but the sound is a bit tentative.  "I think she got as big a kick out of the first page as you did."

"Do you still want me to read it?" I ask, turning her around to face me.

"Want?" she echoes.  "I'm not so sure about that one.  But we're trying to move forward here and there are things in here that I think you should know.  Maybe it will be easier to talk about some of these things if you read them first."

"If you're sure …."  At her nod, I continue, "Then I'll make you a deal.  I'll read this if you'll sign my cast.  You did want to be the first to sign it, didn't you?"

She looks at me and manages a smile at my attempt to get her to relax.  "Okay," she says, nodding.  "Let me find a pen or a marker."  I climb into bed, propping myself up with a couple of pillows, setting the notebook on my lap while she finishes getting ready for bed and finds a Sharpie pen in her purse.  She climbs under the covers next to me and rests her head on my shoulder.  "I love you."

"I love you, too," I reply, resting my head against hers.  We sit here like this for a moment, then I hold out my arm to her as I flip open the notebook, my eyes going over the first page once again before I turn to the next page.  My heart falls as I study the page crinkled from dried tears.  I look down at her and find her watching me intently.  "I'm sorry …. sorry I made you cry, sorry I wasn't there for you last night."

"I'm sorry, too," she says sadly.  "I think we both managed to hurt each other last night.  But we have made progress in moving past that today, haven't we?"

"Yeah," I say.  In a way, we've come farther today than we have in four years, but it would probably be more heartening if I didn't know we have so much farther to go.  I take a deep breath and pick up the notebook and begin to read.  As I do, I hear the soft scratching of pen against plaster as Mac goes to work on my cast.

I don't stop until I've finished reading every word she put to paper last night, leaning my head back against the headboard with a heavy sigh.  It took so much courage to even write all this down, let alone showing this to me.  Some of it's uplifting, some of it's …. disconcerting, for lack of a better word.  I don't know if I have the kind of courage this took.  I've never been good at things like this.

I can feel Mac's eyes on me and I meet her gaze, unable to read her carefully guarded expression.  She glances down at my cast, where she's drawn a heart with an arrow through it …. but unlike the doodles in her notebook, she hasn't added anything to the inside of the heart.  She looks back up at me, her expression still unreadable.  "So what did you think?" she asks softly, a tremor just barely detectible in her voice.

~*~*~*~


	7. Chapter 7

Harm looks away from me, and I try to command the tears not to fall. I knew that he would probably react like this, but I was the one who insisted on forcing this issue. _Damn it, Sarah_, I berate myself. _When are you ever going to learn? The last thing any man wants to find out about the woman he's having sex with is this. How could you be so stupid?_

I feel his fingers moving over mine tenderly. I look down at our clasped hands and realize that I'm holding his other hand in a vise-like grip, so tight that my knuckles are turning white. Oh, God. The hand that I'm squeezing the life out of also happens to be the one with the cast. Seeing the pain etched in his eyes as I look up, I drop his hand as if burned and start to pull away. "I'm sorry," I whisper. Is that faint, faraway voice really mine? "I just…."

"Hey, Mac," he says, his words a whispered caress as he gently takes my hand back in his. His good hand this time – he's flexing the fingers of his right hand, probably trying to restore some sense of feeling. "It's…."

As he trails off, I wonder what he was about to say. Was he about to try to tell me that it's okay? He knows better. It will be a long time before any of this is okay.

I look up at him, tears stinging my eyes as I attempt to smile. Even if it isn't, maybe I can make him believe that it's okay. He tugs on my hand, pulling me against his side. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can pretend for just a little while.

I hear something that sounds like pages rustling. The notebook – I'd almost managed to forget about it. "I'm sorry," I say again. A law degree and years spent in the courtroom, and that's the only thing I can think of to say. Wonderful.

"Shhh," he says, dropping a kiss on top of my head. "You have nothing to apologize for, either your behavior or what you wrote in here."

My eyes snap open as I lift my head just enough to give him an incredulous stare. "But - but some of the things I said in there…." I protest, sputtering.

I can see the gears clicking in his mind as he considers his reply. I guess it's better to be cautious at this point. We've already gotten into so much trouble the last two days by opening our mouths before really thinking about the words that were coming out. Neither of us wants a repeat of the arguments of last night. Honestly, I don't know if we can survive many more incidents like last night. We can't keep hurting ourselves and each other, but I'd feel better about that knowledge if I knew how to stop it. The fact that hindsight is twenty-twenty doesn't seem to be working in this case. Now, it's more like 'lather, rinse, repeat.' "If taken in the wrong context," he begins slowly, his eyes steady on mine, "I can see how some of the things you talk about in here might be…misconstrued."

"But," I counter, grabbing the notebook off his lap and flipping until I find the section that I want. I jab my finger at the page. "You can't tell me that doesn't bother you. Most men would consider that an insult to their…manhood."

He hesitates again before conceding, "I guess in most cases that might be true. And…probably…under different circumstances…I'd like to think that I take care of seeing to the needs of my partner…."

I laugh, trying to turn it into a joke, but it rings hollow to my ears. "See, I knew your flyboy ego would be bruised," I say. The words sound joking, but my tone isn't. "I mean, that's okay if you feel that way. I guess if the situation were reversed, although I suppose it would be harder for a man to, um…I would feel that same…."

He places a finger over my lips to shush me. "Can I finish?" he asks, his tone confident. "Okay. Mac, look at everything that happened yesterday." Was it only yesterday? Was it just four days ago that we unleashed this storm enveloping our lives? I feel like I've aged twenty years just in the last few days. "We had the court hearing, and then you had your appointment and add on top of that everything that happened over the weekend. It's no wonder that you were feeling a little off. Or is there something else to it? Mac, did Mic ever say something to...I don't know…."

"No," I say quickly. Maybe too quickly, given the questioning glance he shoots me. "It wasn't Mic. Um…." I hesitate a moment, biting on my lip, and then sighing. I pull myself away from him, sitting up cross-legged, my eyes fixed on some distant point as my fingers play with a loose thread on the bed's quilt. "A month or two after we got married, Chris came in late one night. He had been drinking, although he wasn't really drunk. It was more of an adrenaline high. I was into it – he didn't do anything I didn't want him to do, but…."

"Mac, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he says. I know that this is probably one of the last things he wants to hear about, but he needs to know….why some things are the way they are.

"No, I want to explain," I persist. He lifts my chin, brushing away the wetness on my cheeks with his thumb. I manage to draw in a shaky breath and continue. "It was wild and very rough and just what I wanted at that time of my life. I didn't really know what it meant to make love with someone, to have that connection that went beyond the physical. After Chris was done, I made the mistake of telling him that I wasn't, um, finished. I'd been drinking myself, so maybe that dulled my reactions."

I pause, my mind drifting back to that day. It's funny sometimes – I can barely remember my high school graduation, but I can recall with perfect clarity how much I thought I'd disappointed my husband. I can still feel his accusing gaze, burning through me. _That's not my problem,_ he had said. _Maybe you should have worked at it a little bit harder._

Harm's fingers, gently stroking my hair, bring me back to the present, and I find myself leaning into his embrace again. _Please, God_, I pray fervently, _I've never asked for much from you, but please let this work out with us. I don't know what I'd do if I lost him, too._ Gathering my courage, I continue the story. "He suggested that there was something wrong with me and that was why…."

"He obviously knew nothing about pleasing a woman," he says firmly. Even after only four days as his lover, I can't imagine Harm ever being so callous, even on his worst day. Harm may have a few negative qualities, but I don't think you could count being a selfish lover among them. Perhaps his flyboy ego would take a major blow if he didn't feel he'd done everything in his power to satisfy his partner.

"Well, Chris wasn't you," I reply. What I wouldn't give to have met Harm when I was still so young and impressionable. Then Chris and John and Dalton and especially Mic never would've happened. Who would have thought that with my track record Mic would turn out to be the worst of the bunch? The face shown to the world isn't necessarily indicative of what lurks beneath the surface. "Anyway, the next night Chris and I went out to a bar. We were dancing and things started getting a little hot and heavy. I suggested that we go home, and he in turn 'suggested' that maybe I could take something to help me, um, respond a little better, you know, to prevent a repeat of the night before. I didn't think I could take again the cold look I'd seen in his eyes…so God help me, I agreed."

I don't say any more than that. There are some things that I can't tell even Harm, not yet. I don't think he can really understand the person I was back then, how I could do some of the things that I'd done. It's almost like I was two different people. The old Sarah Mackenzie died and a new person was born in her place in the wind-swept sands of the Arizona desert. She isn't part of my life anymore. She shouldn't have any part of my life now. I've got to be stronger than she is, to keep her buried deep down inside where she belongs.

"Okay," he says, his tone accepting. I stare at him, incredulous.

"I just told you that I experimented with drugs," I exclaim, "and all you have to say is 'okay'? Or has it not registered yet that I'm not talking about the legal consumption of a prescribed drug?"

"No, I got that part," he replies slowly, as if carefully considering his words. "I already knew you were an underage drinker, so I guess I'm not really all that surprised to find out that you had tried drugs, too. Anyway, it sounds a lot like Chris played on your vulnerabilities. He blamed you for not being satisfied in bed and, probably knowing that you would do anything at that point in your life to cling to the closest thing you had to stability, he figured you'd do anything to hang onto that."

"Yeah, I was so desperate to…." I begin, breaking off as I make the devastating connection in my mind, a connection I'd dared not contemplate until now. _Oh, dear God. Please help me. I can't go through that again. Not with Harm. Not when it means so much._ "Don't you get it? I was so scared that he would leave me that I was willing to do anything and now…."

"I'm not leaving you," he protests firmly, tightening his embrace.

"Can you promise me that?" I ask shakily. Before he can think about an answer which might mollify me - or worse, end up being a promise that he can't keep, I push on. "Please, don't answer that. I don't know if I can deal with the answer right now."

"Even if…." he begins, before I silence him with a violent shake of my head.

"Not yet," I insist, covering his lips with my fingers to quiet him. As much as I need the reassurances that I know he wants to offer, I know I can't take it if he's wrong and it somehow all falls apart. We're still too new, too fragile. "I don't know what I'd do if you couldn't keep that promise."

After a moment, he nods. His fingers still lazily stroking my hair, he says, in a carefully neutral tone, "Mac, I'm not Chris. And I can promise…." I start to shake my head again, but he cuts me off gently. "Please, let me finish. I promise I will never treat you like that. I want you to be able to tell me when you need something or when you don't. I want to know when I can hold you or when you just want to be left alone."

My eyes meet his, and I find a conviction in his gaze that is warming in its comforting familiarity. I close my eyes and rest my head against his shoulder. He believes every word he's saying, and I can't help grasping onto that. I want to believe like he does, to feel that certainty even amidst everything that's happened. Can he believe enough for the both of us?

"I just don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling," I admit softly. "I'd just opened up with the doctor and I felt raw and…I needed you to make me forget; only I ended up making it worse. I didn't forget a damn thing and it's been tearing me apart that I was so stupid…I feel like I used you…."

"You mean," he says, "the way I did Sunday morning when I knew I was going to be meeting Mic in a few hours and I needed you more than I'd ever needed anything or anyone in my life. If things had gone the other way…."

"Don't say that," I plead. I shiver at the thought of what might have been that dark and dank morning. "It could never have turned out that way." I want to protest that Superman always comes out on top, but I know deep down that even superheroes aren't immortal. Even Superman can lose. "It….Mic never could have come out on top." I finish weakly, swallowing hard.

He takes my hand in his again, squeezing it reassuringly. "The point is," he continues quietly, "I had all this adrenaline pounding in my veins and I needed a release for all that energy, and when you woke up and walked over to me, all mussed and sleepy-eyed, I had to have you, had to bury myself in you."

"But you found your release," I reply, biting back my frustration. All we seem to be doing is talking around in circles. "Whereas all I did was end up feeling frustrated. I did want you, but…." I trail off, not sure that I can find the right words to help him understand that it's not the same thing at all.

"Mac, it's okay."

"But…."

He places a finger over my lips. "Mac," he says firmly, "why don't we put this aside for the night?" I try to protest, but he shakes his head. "It's been a long couple of days. We could both use some rest. Maybe after a good night's sleep, you'll have a different perspective on things."

I don't think so, but I'm so scared right now. So many of our conversations the last few days have started out innocuous but have degenerated. I can't do that again. I sigh. Maybe he's right. I don't really know, but I don't know what else to do.

"I guess so," I say, sounding unsure to my ears. I study him, noting the exhaustion and pain etched in the lines around his eyes. "When was the last time you took something for your wrist? You'll probably sleep better."

I start to get up from the bed, but he tugs me back down. "I don't really need anything," he insists.

"It's just ibuprofen," I say, pulling from his arms and sliding off the bed. "Come on, it'll make me feel better."

He manages a smile, but it comes off as forced. "Okay," he finally says. "I'll take the pills."

I'm halfway out the door when his voice calls me back. "Mac?"

I turn to face him, uncertain. "I will be okay….eventually."

I try to smile, but can't manage more than a grimace before I duck my head and continue into the hallway. I want to believe him. But can we survive waiting for eventually to come?


	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes - Several of you have asked about this, so here it is - the next part of Searching For Sunny Skies. This part is actually more of a continuation of part 7, so it is still from Mac's POV. She's not in a very good place emotionally, and this part reflects that. This part turned out a little different than I had originally planned in my outline - the same characters appear, but one of them takes a different approach with Mac than the other two. This part is about the conflict playing out in Mac's mind, so as I was writing, I found that having a voice of reason inside her head worked for what I was trying to accomplish here. Also, there are some lines from some later JAG episodes in this part (remember this takes place in early season six before 'The Princess and the Petty Officer') - specifically 'JAGathon', 'Hail and Fairwell Part I' and 'Fair Winds and Following Seas' plus a little hint of the conversation from 'Lifeline' thrown in - that really just fit with where this part goes, particularly the line from 'JAGathon' (which is spoken by Mac here instead of Harm as in the episode). And the line about self-destructing was said by Harm in part 2 of 'Stormy Weather', when he was explaining about Sydney. In the next part, which will be Harm's POV, Harm and Mac will continue the conversation that they begin at the end of this part.

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER

I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance across it while Harm sleeps peacefully next to me. He fell asleep long ago while I can't make myself unwind enough to even close my eyes. I know that he seems okay about what he read tonight, but the persistent little voice inside my head tells me that he was simply telling me what I wanted to hear, saying the words that would placate me and prevent yet another argument.

I try to push the nagging thought from my mind, reminding myself that Harm isn't like that. He's never been less than honest with me, even when it hasn't been what I have wanted to hear. He may hold things back sometimes, but he's not going to tell me he's feeling something he's not. He's not going to lie to me just because it's what I want to hear. Hell, if he would have only told me what I'd wanted to hear in Sydney – or when he left JAG – the events of the last few days, the last few months, would never have happened.

Then another voice enters my mind, Harm's voice, insisting it never would have worked. _If I had let myself get involved in a relationship with you at that time, it would have self-destructed._ But how could we possibly be in a worse place than we are at this time? We're standing on the precipice of total annihilation right now, looking down at an endless void, dark and black and malevolent. Surely we could have figured out a way to make it work back then. At least then we wouldn't have Mic hanging over us now, threatening to tear us asunder.

I shake my head, trying to drive the despairing thoughts from my mind. Harm and I will survive this. We have to. Together we can figure this out. I love him and he loves me. That has to be enough. It will be enough.

I hear a low chuckle, disturbingly familiar, and I jerk upright in bed with a gasp, shivering for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature. I know that sound, the voice behind it, but it's not possible….

"What makes you think you're capable of preventing this from blowing up in your face?" a voice says in the dark, low and mocking. "Love? Is that what you call it when you destroy a man's life?"

I wrap my arms around me, my fingernails digging into my skin. "Chris."

Suddenly, he's in front of me, perched on the corner of the bed. Not the Chris I last saw two years ago before the bullet that ended his life. This is the Chris of my youth, the boy I had foolishly married when I was too drunk to know or care what I was doing. He's holding an open beer bottle in his hand, swinging it with a couple of fingers. I can see the amber liquid swirling around as the bottle moves and even though I know it isn't there, I squeeze my arms tighter in an effort to resist the urge to reach out and take it.

His gaze travels from my eyes to the bottle and he smiles knowingly. "You want this," he says.

"No," I argue, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. "No, I don't. I don't need it."

"Of course not," he taunts with a derisive laugh. "Because love is going to conquer all….at least until Mr. Dress Whites over there figures out that you're not woman enough to satisfy him."

I stare at him in mute shock. "Come on, Sarah," he continues. "I'm sure Mr. Hotshot Pilot has had a lot of women warm his bed over the years. Don't they all have a girl in every port? And I bet none of those women ever complained that he didn't satisfy them in bed."

"It wasn't like that," I say. "Harm did everything….It wasn't him, it was…."

"It was you?" he asks, his voice mocking me. I want to cover my ears with my hands, block out everything he's saying, but I can't. "Of course it was, Sarah. That's the point."

"Not the way you're twisting it," I cry, pulling away as he holds the bottle out towards me. "I wasn't in the right frame of mind…."

"You were too drunk," he mocks. "You weren't in the right frame of mind. Just full of excuses, aren't you?"

"I don't need excuses with Harm," I say, shaking my head. "He understands."

Chris laughs, an eerie sound that makes me want to jump up and run somewhere, anywhere to get away from it. "Sure he does," he snorts.

"He does," I insist. "Harm's not you. He doesn't need to push drugs on me just so that he can say he pleased me in bed. I can feel how much he loves me, even when…..my worst sex with him is so far ahead of anything I ever experienced with you."

"You keep telling yourself that," he says, leaning towards me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, just like I could when we're together. It doesn't affect me like it did back then. I'm stronger now. I have to keep telling myself that. "I'm sure it will keep you warm at night when he decides to go find someone who can get it done in the sack. I just wonder what will happen first – him finding someone else to warm his bed or you destroying his life. It might be a close call, although you already have a running start on the latter."

"I will not destroy Harm's life."

"Of course you will," he counters, taking a sip of the beer in his hand, "just like you destroyed every other man you've been with."

"I didn't destroy you," I snap. "You did that all to yourself."

"Yeah," he snickers. "I was out there committing armed robbery just for the hell of it. Not because I had a drunken wife at home who needed a lot of booze or because she needed a little something extra to be able to perform in bed."

"We would have had money if you'd been capable of holding down a job," I remind him. "But you were more concerned with sleeping late, running around with your friends all day, going out drinking at night or just riding away on your motorcycle. That was your choice. I didn't force you to be an irresponsible bastard who wasn't even ready for the responsibility of being a real husband."

"As if you were the poster child for responsibility in those days," he says derisively. "You were right there with me in all of that. All you cared about was getting blasted every night at the expense of everything else. I meant two things to you – an escape from your father and a source of the booze you so loved. I was just a means to an end and so was the sex. The reason you couldn't keep your clothes on around me was because you knew it would get you what you desperately craved."

"But that's not me anymore," I insist shakily. "I moved past that, with the help of Uncle Matt and the Marines. They showed me how to grow up and take responsibility. I didn't need an escape anymore. I don't need to sell my body or my soul."

"You didn't need an escape," Chris repeats. "Then what are you doing in the Marines? You are escaping from your old life. And then there was Okinawa…."

"What does Okinawa have to do with anything?" I demand, although I fear that I know where he's going with this.

"Come on, Sarah," he says mockingly. "John Farrow. Your commanding officer. Ring any bells? I saw you, remember?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I argue. "John was…."

"Just another escape," Chris interrupts. "With him, you could pretend you were a real woman worth something. You could fantasize that someone loved you and valued you…."

"I was worth something," I retort angrily. "I was making it as a Marine, got accepted to law school…."

"Thanks to lover boy," he interrupts. "All you were doing was selling your body again to get what you thought you needed. Did you really think that was going to bring you respectability?" His low laughter is cold and harsh and it sends shivers through me.

I shake my head, trying to push aside his truth, the one he's trying to force me to see. "That happened after," I say. "I had already gotten accepted into the program, was already scheduled to transfer out of his command. I didn't sleep with him because of that. I cared about him."

"And of course *that* makes it alright," he declares, "to violate your marriage vows, to breach the laws that you were about to go to law school to learn to uphold. Some way to achieve respectability, Sarah."

"We didn't have a marriage," I cry, "and if you were honest, you'd admit that we never did." I can't refute the last part of his statement because it is true. I knew that getting involved with John was wrong and that it could destroy everything that I'd worked so hard to build in the Marines.

It wasn't that I didn't care about that. I did, but I couldn't help myself. But I cared for John, too, even if I didn't love him the way I do Harm. He was the first real adult relationship I'd ever had. If things had been different – he hadn't been my commanding officer, our careers hadn't been taking us in different directions – I might have tried to build something with him. He was a calm and steadying presence in my life that only Uncle Matt had provided prior to that point. I needed that port in the storm which has been so very hard to find all my life.

"Give me a break," he says, almost as if he can read my mind. "It wasn't real. He knew you would owe him, didn't he, and he took advantage. Although I guess it's good that it didn't last long. Then he might have found out just how fucked up you really are." He pauses for a moment and then smirks. "Oh, I forgot. He eventually did figure that out, didn't he, 'round about the time you ruined his career."

"Stop this," I hiss. "You are just trying to mess with my head."

"Doesn't take much."

"Don't listen to him, Sarah," a new voice chimes in, and I breathe a sigh of relief. "You and I both know the truth."

"I'm trying not to, John," I say. Chris snorts, but I force myself to ignore him. "But he's right about one thing. I did ruin your career."

"My career was already in the toilet after Haiti," John reminds me. His voice is so calm and gentle, and I latch onto that like a lodestone, as a beacon drawing me in away from the strife and pain. "I had been delaying the inevitable when Chris showed up. I don't blame you for that either. You and Commander Rabb did everything you could for me and more. And you didn't ask me to take the fall for Chris' murder. I chose to do that on my own. Just like I chose to disregard the rules in Okinawa."

"We both did," I say sadly.

"That's the point," John says. "We made our choices, and it's up to us to live with the consequences of our own actions."

"You mean the way she faced the consequences of marrying me?" Chris interjects. "That's right….she didn't face anything, not until the end. She just tried to ignore the fact that I existed, even when I came back. And even then, she practically got off scot-free. She gets quote punished end quote and ends up promoted to Lieutenant Colonel just months later. Some consequences."

"He's right," I say, turning away. "It was easier to pretend than…." Is that what I'm doing now? Am I just pretending that everything will be fine, that Harm and I can make it? Everything is so screwed up that I don't even know anymore. Things seemed so simple Friday, when it was just me and Harm and all these intense feelings that we could no longer deny. For just a little bit, we could forget about everything that won't let us be.

"Sarah, you've more than paid your dues for that time in your life," John says, taking my hand in his. "You deserve to be happy and I know Commander Rabb can do that for you. I knew it back then, when he defended you so ferociously in court."

"Have I really paid?" I murmur, pulling my hand away. I look down at the sleeping man next to me. He looks so peaceful, so untroubled, but I know he's not. I'm not the one who has paid. It's those who mean the most to me. They keep paying for my mistakes. Now it's the person I love most in the world who has to pay the price. He's the one who is hurting right now because of my screw-ups.

"Of course not," another voice chimes in. Good god, why is this happening to me? "Just like Ragle, I'm a member of the 'dead because of Sarah Mackenzie' club. In fact, I'm the charter member."

I whirl on him angrily. "I *know* that is not true," I say. "It's not my fault Coster was obsessed with me. And *you* are the one who insisted that I meet with you, even after I told you over and over that I wanted nothing to do with you. You shouldn't have even been there that night! That's on you, not me."

"I learned my lesson, didn't I?" Dalton says with a shrug. "I was just deluding myself into thinking that you were something special. You couldn't hack it in my world, in my bed, so you went running back to the Marines."

"You tried to make me into something I wasn't," I argue. "I was nothing more than a bauble to hang off your arm or a scrub to do your legal grunt work, a body to warm your bed. You had no concept of the value that I had as a woman or as a lawyer. Then you betrayed me and expected me to be the good little woman and just let it go."

"Except you wanted what I gave you," he reminds me. "I was just another stepping stone on the road to respectability for you. You thought you could pretend to the world that you were this perfect woman who was meant for something better. But you found you couldn't pretend, could you? You never have been able to, not for very long anyway. You went running back to the Marines because you couldn't cut it in my world and don't think I didn't notice that lover boy over there was involved in that."

"That wasn't why…." I start to protest.

Dalton leans towards me and I have to force myself not to scoot back on the bed. He's not real. None of this is. "You realized that you were the same stupid tramp that your father always accused you of being," he taunts me. "You sold yourself to me to pull yourself higher then ran when you realized what you were doing because you couldn't handle it. Then I died and you crawled right back into the bottle."

"Coster was messing with my head….just like you're trying to do."

"Like Chris said," Dalton sneers, "doesn't take much."

"Stop!" I cry out, stumbling from the bed. "You're not doing this to me. I won't let this happen."

"You really think you can stop it?" I don't know whose voice it is. They're all merging together in my head, taunting me, trying to drag me under. But then one voice comes forward out of the din, and I can't stop the shaking.

"You're still nothing but my stupid tramp daughter and that's all you'll ever be."

* * *

I bolt straight up in bed, the sheets tangled tightly in my fingers. Oh, God. It felt so real. I could hear their voices so clear, feel them, smell them. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears filling my eyes.

"Mac?" Harm says sleepily, rolling over to face me. He pushes himself up and tries to wrap his arms around me, but I pull away. "Please talk to me. Let me help."

Drawing my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs, my fingers squeezing tight in an attempt to control the trembling. "I don't know if that's possible," I whisper, resting my forehead on my knees.

Harm puts his hand on my back, slowly stroking up and down. I wish it could help, but his gentle touch is doing nothing to soothe the turmoil in my soul. "You are going to get through this," he vows, leaning closer to me. "And I will be right here with you. I promise."

"Why?" I ask tearfully. "Every man who has ever had the misfortune of being involved with me is either dead or wishes they were." Dalton, Chris – both dead as a direct result of my actions. John lost the most important thing he had because I couldn't stay away from him. Mic is facing prison after he gave up his career for me because I couldn't wait for what I really wanted.

"Not every man," he says softly. Slowly, I feel him come closer until he is leaning against my back, resting his head against mine. "I'm still here."

"Will you always be there?" I ask. The words slip out before I can stop them. I don't think I can deal with the answer right now.

"Yes," he replies with the passionate insistence that I've heard from him so many times. I want to believe him. I'm desperate to. I just don't know if I can right now.

"But how long until I ruin your life?" I murmur. I feel his cast as his hands stroke me and I can't help but flinch a little at the physical reminder. "Don't you see? It's already begun. Mic tried to kill you because of me. Just like Dalton was killed by Coster because of me."

"Coster was sick," he reminds me. "And so is Mic. That has nothing to do with you. If it wasn't you, they would probably have eventually fixated on someone else. That's on them. You are not responsible for their actions."

"My father was right about me," I counter. "I am just a stupid tramp…."

"No, you're not," he says insistently. "It's not stupid to make mistakes."

"But it is to keep making the same ones over and over," I argue weakly.

"If it is, then I'm just as guilty of that as you are," he says. He hesitates and I can sense him looking away, trying to find the right words – or what he thinks will be the right ones. I've seen that look so many times when he's preparing an argument for court. "There are so many times that I could have told you…."

"But there were always complications," I interrupt. I know what he's trying to say, but I don't know if I'm in the right frame of mind to hear it right now. "Isn't that what you were trying to say when you were explaining what happened in Sydney?"

He's silent for a long moment. I know there's no way he can refute that. There are so many times that something might have happened between us, but there was always something in the way. Another woman, another man, our careers. That's why it wouldn't have worked then. It's why we're struggling to hold it together now. The complications haven't gone away. I don't know that they ever will.

"I think if we were to wait for the complications to go away," he finally says slowly, carefully choosing his words, "then we would be waiting forever. I don't want that. I know that now. I might lose you and I don't ever want that to happen."

"But what if there's no way we can get past this?" I ask in a shaky voice. "If we would have self-destructed before, what makes you think that we won't now?"

He inhales sharply at that, unable to respond. He knows there is no way to counter that.

* * *

To be continued...


End file.
